Absolution
by Piuma
Summary: Wishing to disappear after every piece of her life with Raoul is lost, Christine's only mistake is when her decision to conceal herself within the middle class society she once belonged to leads to being discovered by her past. What new surprises lie in store? Blend of ALW/Leroux/Kay elements.
1. Chapter 1

**"Forgiveness is a virtue of the brave."**

**-Indira Gandhi**

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><p>It was amazing how quickly things could go from being perfectly normal and routine to completely out of control. Life would never cease to amaze her in that way. Earlier that day, they had been sitting down at the table and discussing a trip to Perros-Guirec, eating from a tray of fruit and watching the way the summer breeze danced with the long ivory curtains. And now, now she found herself waking with her face in the wet ground, rain pelting her body, her hair tangled with mud, her night shift soaked through and scrapes all over her palms. How had it happened? If her mind wasn't about to demand the answer, her aching body was begging to know. Her legs burned, her back was stiff from lying on the cold, damp earth for so long.<p>

Wearily she sat up, peering back in the direction of the house, or at least what she thought was the direction of the house. That was when she remembered. Bright flashes of orange and yellow, thick billows of black smoke pouring from the windows, the terror that adrenaline spurred within her body as she flew from the danger that had surrounded her.

She had been in bed, sleeping peacefully, perhaps dreaming about the voyage back to Perros-Guirec, whether or not her scarf would have to be rescued again. She stirred in her sleep, rolling over, waking slightly when she realized that Raoul was not in the bed, his form absent from the space next to her. Perhaps he was still downstairs in the library, sitting at his desk and finishing some business that he had gladly ignored earlier in the day when he'd instead chosen to spend time with her. She pulled back the blankets, standing and moving to the door, the stench growing stronger. Was that... was it smoke? She opened the bedroom door, immediately assaulted by the dense, dark fog that rushed inside.

Fumbling down the stairs as quickly as she could through the darkness, she reached the bottom and looked both ways, only to be greeted by bright flames. The flames were coming from the direction of the library. Raoul was in the library. Her heart dropped, her stomach churned. The fire... Raoul... surely he had gotten out... surely, but why had he not come up to find her if he had woken up? He couldn't be... no, it wasn't possible that he was gone. Her mind was growing dizzy with the toxic stench creeping into her lungs. Raoul would be outside. He would be outside waiting for her. She turned about, looking every way, trying to find an escape. If she didn't get out soon the smoke would take her. She ran to the nearest window, flinging it open and sticking her head out. It was only a few feet to the ground. She crawled out, falling onto the hard earth and then standing again. Her eyes immediately flew in the direction of the library. She looked in the window, only to see it completely immersed in flames. That was when she began to scream, to cry, to shriek. Raoul was inside. Raoul was in that library. He wasn't out here, he was in there, and he was gone.

So she ran.

She ran as far as she could from the house, as fast as possible, the flames slowly licking their way up the walls, tearing down beams, ripping at the wallpaper and destroying everything inside, destroying all of the memories that she had made there. With the flames went everything that she held familiar for the past two years.

Somewhere in the dark she had tripped, she'd fallen. Her exhausted body wouldn't let her argue anymore, and she merely found herself succumbing to the dark. She remembered wondering if she was dying. Is this what it felt like? Like your mind was screaming for you to press on but your body couldn't fulfill the order? Or was it more like losing every sense of rationality, every ability to see or hear or interact with that which was so familiar and always present in your life. If that was it, she would rather be dead. Even if that wasn't it she wished she had died, that she hadn't woken up in the house and that she had died along with Raoul in the fire.

It wasn't the case, however, and now she found herself sitting up and covered in dirt, unaware of where she was. In the early hours of the morning it must have begun to rain, and it carried on still. She needed to find somewhere to get inside. But she didn't want to stand, she didn't want to leave this spot. She just wanted to stay here. She couldn't bring herself to rise. Let no one find her, let no one come looking for her. Where would she go from here? Where could she go? Her father was dead, her husband was now dead... She had no one. No family. Nothing. Life had lost its purpose - it burned away with every possession that she owned in that house. The tears began to trickle down her cheeks again, her chest wracking with sobs. She had no one. Absolutely no one. The realization was growing stronger, and each raindrop that pelted her body felt like a punch or a kick to the very core of her being. She brought her knees to her chest, shuddering and crying, holding herself in an attempt to find some sort of comfort in all of the madness.

Christine wasn't exactly sure how long she sat like that, but the rain slowly stopped, and her tears began to subside. The rain obviously wasn't going to fulfill this desire she had to refrain from living. And since that was the case, something needed to be done. She needed to get up, she needed to find some place warm, to find some dry clothes. She needed something familiar, to try and find solace in something that she recognized. The sky was still dark, but she began to walk in the direction of the city, she could see the faint glow of the lights from her current location. They didn't live - ... well, they hadn't lived too far from the borders of the city. She would walk into the city and find somewhere to go, or find an inn to stay in. She would get a change of clothes and begin to pick up the pieces of her life, and she would find a way to move on.

The walk was eerie, there was something about it that was unsettling. It was the fact that she had never pictured herself having to do such a thing under such circumstances. Really, who imagined themselves wandering aimlessly down a road in a dirty, torn up night shift, having abandoned their destroyed home and the dead husband inside it? She had never thought that she would go through such a thing.

It was impossible to cry. Or at least right now it was, anyway. She had spent all her tears on the aftershock that came with such destructive, life changing events. She felt void of emotion at this point - she felt numb. Her only desire was to put all of the horrors that had just occurred behind her and to find a way to start again, to find a way to be secure and to find solace. Of all the things she could have wished for at this moment, it would be peace. Of course she would have wished to have Raoul back, but Raoul's life had proven to be fragile, and that fragility was what put her in her current situation. Peace, and understanding, and acceptance... She would have to walk farther than the length of this road to achieve such coveted prizes.

It wasn't long before she had made her way into the city, and she began to wander through the streets, meandering and staring at signs, unsure of where she was going or in what direction the streets were taking her. There was an aspect of Paris that made it like a maze in the dark. If one was not careful they could be lost forever to the cobblestones and towering walls covered in windows and shutters. Some shops she knew, others she didn't, and she attempted to gauge a sense of direction from those that she did recognize. She turned a corner into a large cleared area, void of narrow streets, and suddenly she looked up and she found herself face to face with a looming, ominous structure.

Le Opera Garnier.

Her breath hitched in her throat. It wasn't her intention to end up here, not at all. Something in her subconscious had guided her here, something deep inside that yearned for something solid and real. But she couldn't go in there. She couldn't. Not after everything that happened... No, going in there was an idea that was completely and totally unacceptable.

But she needed clothes. She needed something. Christine bit her lip, then slowly took a step towards the large marble building, climbing up the stairs and finding her way inside, looking both ways to make sure that no one would see her creep in. Once past the door, she felt a streak of fear shoot up her spine. Why had she come in here? She needed to leave. She could find a dress somewhere else, couldn't she? No, she had no money with her, and it would be light soon. She needed to hurry.

She stared at the wreckage around her, her eyes unsure of where to look first. There were cobwebs hanging from every light fixture, and the walls were scorched and covered in black soot, as if the smoke were an unruly child who had run about drawing on the walls. There was trash scattered on the floor, old playbills from the last performance that the Opera Garnier knew - the opera that had lead to the horrific night that had toyed with her fate. She picked one of the playbills up, examining it and deciding to keep it with her, though she wasn't exactly sure what compelled her to do so. Her eyes followed the grand staircase up to the theater doors. If the foyer looked so unfortunate and dilapidated, what on earth did the theater look like? She didn't want to know, that would be too much. It pained her enough to know what her former home had gone through, but to actually take it in visually would be another thing entirely.

Realizing that she had lost herself in thought - in turn losing valuable time she could have spent gathering necessities - she recollected herself and turned in the direction of the dressing rooms. With a hesitant first step she began, delving into one of the shadowy halls, winding through the dark corridor and occasionally jumping at the sound of a rat scuttling by or a cat darting past her. In and out, no more dawdling, just a change of clothes and anything else that she might happen to run across and deem necessary... She reached her door and turned the handle, pushing the swollen, stuck wood until the door moaned and leapt open and she was confronted by her reflection in the large mirror.

Each memory flooded back, and she found herself crying again, feeling overwhelmed. Two years. It had been two years since she sang on the stage, since she had slept in this bed... since all of the events that had transpired.

It had been two years since him.

Carefully she stepped forward, placing a hand on the mirror, sliding it to the side and peering down the passageway.

"Christine..."

She whirled around, swearing that she could have heard her name from the cracked corners of the room, seeping through the sagging wallpaper. There was no one here. He had fled, surely he had fled, or perhaps they had killed him, or he had died on his own. He wasn't here. She was imagining things. But all the same, she found herself abandoning the mirror and walking to her wardrobe, pulling open a drawer and ruffling through the old frocks inside. She pulled out a simple gray dress, laying it on the bed and then retrieving all of the necessary undergarments before turning to momentarily peruse the room. It had remained fairly untouched by the fire, though the wood of the door was obviously a bit warped and stuck when one attempted to open it. She moved to the vanity and opened the drawer to pull out her hairbrush. When she looked down, her eyes froze.

Inside the drawer was a gold band.

For a moment her breath stopped coming, and she felt that her heart had stopped beating. She couldn't move, she couldn't do anything but stand there, she couldn't even bring herself to move her eyes away from the small golden ring inside the drawer. That ring represented everything that she had abandoned, everything that she had experienced within the walls of this Opera house. It was music, it was obsession, insanity... love, even. It was her old life, and she didn't know how to respond with being confronted with all of the memories so suddenly.

Carefully, her fingers moved towards the band and she slowly picked it up. She stared at it, examining the beautiful etching of the vines all around it. She looked down at the ring on her left hand, it's gaudiness very nearly screaming in comparison to the modest gold band she held in her hand now. She pulled the ring off her finger, staring at it and then placing it on the desk. As she slid the other ring onto her finger, she could swear she heard a murmur hanging in the air, crawling down the walls and lingering at her ear. Her skin burned, it hissed and scowled at her, feeling like some sort of ominous scar that she now carried on her left hand. The tears were spilling from her eyes, the streams growing faster every moment.

But yet, it comforted her.

It terrified her, but it was something she knew. It was something familiar, something that she had once known as tangible. All that was solid and secure in her life was now gone, and it was reassuring to have something, even if it was something that harbored all that she had rejected in her life, even if it was the life she hadn't chosen.

She moved away from the vanity rather abruptly and suddenly, grabbing the hair brush and running it through her curls, then turning and opening a drawer, finding a pair of stockings and some small black shoes, which she slipped on.

Hesitantly she removed her night shift and stood naked in the room, immediately feeling the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. Whether that was because of the slight chill in the room or the undeniable feeling that there were eyes hounding her form and devouring every curve she was unsure. She reassured herself that there was no one present, swallowing dryly and giving an uneasy glance about the room. She cleared her throat, attempting to shake the feeling as she quickly pulled on her undergarments and then her frock.

She pulled her curls back and tied them with a scrap of white ribbon, gathering a few more objects from the room before both reluctantly and eagerly giving it a final goodbye and slipping out the heavy wooden door. She wrapped the old, worn cloak that she'd found in the wardrobe around her body, and as she reemerged from the Opera to return to the city, she felt the weight of the gold band on her finger: a constant reminder as she took each step away from the last bit of anything that she even remotely held dear.

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><p><strong>DISCLAIMER:<strong>

**The Phantom of the Opera, in its respective forms, (C) Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, & Andrew Lloyd Webber.**


	2. Chapter 2

Disappearing. That was the most appealing and ideal step to take.

In that moment when she had left her ring in her old vanity drawer, it was as if she had closed the door on that life. Nothing could bring back her life with Raoul. Of course it pained her to do it. There was part of her that wanted to go running back to the Opera to retrieve the ring, but she wouldn't let herself. If she wanted to be able to focus on taking care of herself, severing all emotional ties was absolutely necessary. There wasn't time to let herself grieve.

More than this, it wasn't that she didn't feel the hurt, the grief over the loss of her husband, but it hadn't truly registered yet. It was surreal. It was almost as if Raoul wasn't dead, as if she was just going on a small excursion into the city streets. The only time it really occurred to her that he was gone was when she realized after all these thoughts of adventure that she wouldn't be going home. There was nothing to go home to. No husband, no house, no life. It only made sense to start moving on now. If she didn't, how would she take care of herself throughout all of this? It would be difficult, undoubtedly, but she had perservered through equally challenging circumstances more than once in her life.

There had been a time when Christine was young that she and her father had struggled through hardship, that they had learned that in order to make ends meet one often had to make sacrifices even if it meant discomfort for a short time. It had happened when they had begun Gustave's career as a traveling violinist. Being in fairs, he never could be sure of how much money he would bring in, and because of that he never knew how much food he would be able to buy, not to mention whether or not it would be enough for two people.

Christine, being such a young child, had been incapable of understanding such a concept at the time. Looking back now she realized the kind of distress it must have caused her father to hear her constantly ask why they weren't eating the rest of the loaf of bread, why they had to save some of their cheese or why they couldn't buy the carton of fresh strawberries. It was the kind of innocence that - while it had become less drastic - had never truly left her until her life after the Opera house.

Looking back now, it was time to employ these past experiences and put them to use. She would need to learn to go hungry for a few hours until she could find some money or earn some to buy herself some food. However, she wasn't entirely sure how she was going to go about earning said money. She could sing and dance, yes, but what other skills did she have? She didn't craft jewelry or sell fruit, so being a street vendor was out of the question. Not to mention that the market - if it was still anything like it was when she had explored the city more frequently in years prior - was so full of carts, tents, and other stalls already that she would never be able to bring attention to herself in any way. She didn't know of any families that she could go to that would need a servant, and besides that, they would surely recognize her as the Vicomtesse de Chagny, as Raoul had maintained an acquaintance with most of the families in the area.

Perhaps she was too overwhelmed at the moment to think on her feet in such a way, perhaps she just needed some time to walk around and clear her mind, or to try to at least. It would be quite difficult to try and clear her mind, especially when every step she took, every sight that her eyes took in, was a reminder that she was in the city for a reason, that reason being that at home nothing but chaos and dismal remains of what once was awaited her. Home was nothing. There was no home.

The sun had come out, and the market was beginning to open up. A cool wind sneaked up behind her, swirling around her body and giving her a slight chill as it tossed the fabric of her cloak to and fro. She pulled the material tighter around her body, also adjusting the small satchel of trinkets and necessities that she'd acquired from the Opera. As she entered the market, she lifted the hood of her cloak to conceal her face slightly in case there should be anyone who might see her and realize who it was.

For a few hours she merely wandered, her face solemn and blank, keeping a keen eye on several of the stalls and making note of them so she could find them again when she actually had money to spend.

The streets had filled considerably, and Christine did her best to keep her face hidden from view. Whether or not people would recognize her upon first glance she wasn't exactly sure, but she wasn't about to take any chances. Surely word of the fire had spread, but she didn't know what conclusion had been drawn about the well-being of both her and Raoul.

After a while she wandered away from the market entirely and moved into a small business district, reading the names of the shops as she passed them. The sun was high in the sky and it was early afternoon, yet she still kept her hood up. She stopped at a small shop, staring into the window and admiring the fine ball gowns and men's suits on the mannequins that were on display. It was strange and unsettling to think that only yesterday she had been wearing gowns made of such fine material, and that she might have been walking down the street only to come across that suit and think of how fine Raoul would look in it - a perfect gentleman. Her heart ached at the thought, and she almost could have cried again, but she couldn't risk drawing attention to herself. The only comfort at this point was thinking that if she could make it through these few days until she could find help, or think of a plan to salvage her future, that some day her heart wouldn't be so tender, and wouldn't ache so fervently each time she recalled the memory of Raoul.

Christine looked down at the gray frock on her body, then back up at the dress in the window, admiring the fine quality of it and the craftsmanship behind it. To think, all of the time that one put into making such a gown...

Then she thought of it. Sewing. She could sew. Mama Valerius had taught her a few things when she had lived with them during that brief period of time before she had taken up residence in the Opera as a ballerina. If anything, perhaps she could get a job in a tailoring shop or something of the sort. Whatever she decided to try and do, she would need to act on it immediately.

The bell on the door jingled in an ironically gay fashion, the complete opposite mood of the woman that passed underneath it. A middle-aged woman came to the front counter of the store upon hearing the sound, giving a half-smile to welcome her.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle," she began, the smile growing slightly as Christine acknowledged her with a nod. "Anything that I can help you with today? Have you come for a gown?" Christine stepped up to the counter, admiring all of the gowns on display as she did so. She reached up and pulled the hood of her cloak down, running a hand over her curls to smooth them down again.

"Yes, I was wondering if you might be looking for any kind of help in your shop?" She answered quietly. Christine's stomach turned at the expression on the woman's face. It didn't give her any confidence, to say the least.

"I... well, not right now, no, I don't think I do. I'm sorry, chérie." Christine's heart sank.

"Is there truly nothing? I could fold gowns and suits and put them in the boxes for you, I could dress the mannequins, I - "

"Really, mademoiselle, I do not need any help. I'm not sure that I can afford taking on an employee of any sort."

"Madame, please, you don't know - " Christine stopped herself. That was too bold. Just because she was in a desperate situation didn't mean that she could confuse passionate pleading with being rude. "I beg your pardon. What I mean is... I am in a dire situation, and I am in desperate need of an income of some sort, even if it is a small amount just to get by on." The woman looked troubled. Christine wasn't sure if she was winning her over or not yet. Her face had softened but she didn't seem any more convinced. "Anything is better than what I have to expect for myself now."

But just what was that? She hadn't actually coherently thought about the various things that could happen to her if she didn't find a way to survive, whether that be through someone else's help or making a life on her own. She preferred to think that she would be successful in these things, and perhaps that was why she hadn't thought about the outcome should she not be able to procure such means to live by. Would she be completely and utterly destitute? No food, no shelter, scraps of clothing, begging off of others to get by? It was hard to believe that if this woman didn't say yes that she could potentially be that much closer to facing that fate.

A silence hung heavily in the air, sitting on her shoulders and weighing her down with the all too common burden of anxiety. She swallowed with some difficulty, her hands clenching into fists and her eyes very nearly pleading. If she couldn't convinced this woman, she would have to continue on today and tomorrow and possibly much longer attempting to find a source of income. If she couldn't convince this woman, she didn't know how many tomorrows she would live to see.

"I'm sorry, mademoiselle," she began finally, her voice cutting through the silence. She was about to speak again, but Christine politely held up her hand to stop her, pursing her lips slightly, obviously discouraged. It was not the answer she had been hoping for, obviously, and therefore she would have to look elsewhere. No reason to make the woman explain herself.

"It's alright, madame. While I cannot say that I understand your situation, I can accept your answer. I'll leave you to your business now, and thank you for your time." She attempted a small smile and backed away from the counter, turning and moving to the door.

"Good luck," she heard the woman say almost timidly. She stopped and turned giving a small nod and thanking her. Christine moved to the door and placed a hand on the knob, staring down at it almost longingly before reluctantly leaving the shop, taunted by the tinkling of the bell once more while remaining unable to stop it from laughing at her defeat.

She stood on the sidewalk outside the shop for several minutes, looking up and down the street to try and decide where she might go next. There were other dress shops in Paris, were there not? Just because one turned her down didn't mean that all of them would, or at least she hoped that this was the case.

Her stomach growled from below, reminding her that she hadn't fed it anything today. This was going to be more difficult than she thought, especially if she was going to have to fight through the day without food. If worst came to worst, there was always the option of risking stealing and being caught. But really, how hard could it be to nonchalantly walk past an apple cart and pluck one off while the vendor was distracted? There was a chance that she would have to resort to it yet, so while she didn't think it would be something extremely difficult she didn't want to bring bad luck upon herself by being overly confident. At this rate, it would be just her luck that she would be the one soul caught stealing apples today amongst the hundreds who did it every day of the week.

WIth a small sigh she turned and began to head deeper into the throng of small shops, only to be a few doors down when she heard the laughing of the dress-shop bell once more, and footsteps on the walk.

"Ma'amselle! Ma'amselle!" Christine stopped and turned, looking into the face of the woman who had rejected her just moments earlier. The woman motioned for her to come back, and after casting her glance about her surroundings she slowly began back until she stood before the woman.

"I've given the matter some thought," Christine felt her heart pick up, eager to hear the rest of what the woman would say. "And I could use some extra hands around the shop to help me now and then. Come back inside, if you will, and perhaps we can discuss this matter further?" With a brief nod, Christine followed her in, trying to suppress a small, genuine smile for the first time since the night before.

"I don't know what changed my mind, really," the woman began again. "I suppose that my old heart just couldn't take the thought of a young thing like you wandering around the streets looking for money." Christine remained silent but pulled her hood down. "You know what young ladies resort to these days." The woman must have seen the way her eyes widened and her face paled at that comment, because she quickly attempted to reassure her. "Not that I think that you would stoop to such a level, but it pains me every day when I see a pretty girl walking about with a gentleman, only to see her with another hours later. I didn't want you to be that pretty girl, I suppose."

"I appreciate your concern, madame," Christine replied, unsure whether she should be amused or insulted by the thought that her potentially new employer felt as though she was saving her from a life of solicitation. "I don't really know how to thank you."

"Well, your help will be enough thanks for me," she moved to fix the sleeve of a gown hanging on a mannequin, primping the skirt here and there as she spoke. "Can I trust you to be here at nine o'clock sharp tomorrow morning?"

"Oh, most certainly," there was a distinct sense of urgency in Christine's voice as if she were trying to reassure the woman before she might change her mind again and fire her just as soon as she had been hired. "I will be here and ready to do whatever it is you wish for me to do."

"Wonderful, chérie. The shop opens at half-past nine - so you will be here with plenty of time, and you will work until four o'clock in the afternoon with a small break for lunch. You'll receive your pay at the end of the day." Christine made a series of mental notes in her head as the woman went along. She moved from mannequin to mannequin as she spoke, adjusting the suits and gowns, fixing buttons and smoothing skirts. "At first I may only ask you to pack gift boxes for customers, but if you remain here long enough to show me some of your skills with a needle you could easily end up crafting one of gowns that stands in the window."

That was a bit ambitious, but Christine knew not how long she would have to remain here, and nodded as she spoke. "I have some skill with a needle, and I am a quick learner. Any opportunity you could give me and anything you could teach me will be greatly welcomed." The woman had moved behind the counter as Christine spoke, smiling slightly.

"So it's settled then. Nine o'clock tomorrow morning to pack some gift boxes."

"Thank you so much, madame, I don't think I can truly thank you as much as you deserve. I promise you I will be a wonderful worker!" The woman smiled warmly, nodding and dismissing her. Christine turned and floated towards the door, almost there when the woman spoke again.

"Wait a moment, mademoiselle. Your name?"

For a split second she froze. A name. She hadn't thought about this. Of course the woman would want to know her name if she was going to be working for her. But she couldn't tell her the truth. If she were to say Christine de Chagny the woman would know instantly, and then once word spread of the catastrophe - or if it already had - then she would never be able to remain undiscovered. Her mind raced, racking her brain for an answer to the woman's question when suddenly it came to her and she very nearly blurted it out.

"Sibylla Larsson." Sibylla, her middle name. Larsson, her mother's maiden name.

"Ah! A lovely name for a lovely girl." It was almost unsettling how relieved Christine felt the moment that those words reached her ears. If she couldn't have come up with a name then surely the woman would have been suspicious. After all, it shouldn't take someone longer than a few seconds to tell someone their name – standing there acting as if trying to remember it might not make the best impression. She placed her hand on the door knob, then hesitated before whirling around and facing the woman once more.

"And I don't believe that I caught your name at all, madame?"

"Oh! Forgive me, I can't believe I didn't think to introduce myself. Micheline, Micheline Deniel."

"Thank you again, Madame Deniel, really. I cannot thank you enough!" She said as she turned and walked out the door, the bell dancing about - singing and laughing once again as she pulled up her hood and began down the sidewalk.

Perhaps someday, should she stay here long enough, she would learn to laugh along with it.


	3. Chapter 3

The night had been hard. She hadn't thought of what she would have to do after leaving the shop guaranteed a job, but with no money. She couldn't rent a room at the inn, she couldn't buy herself anything to eat. She'd resorted to attempting to nonchalantly take the apple in the way she had planned, and she had - thankfully - succeeded without being caught. But one singular apple was not proper sustenance for an entire day. Had she been at home she could have had as much fruit as she wanted. But she wasn't at home, and she wasn't going to be at home. She needed to learn to make this her reality.

That, however, had proved even more difficult when nightfall came. Paris was full of threats when cloaked in darkness. She could not risk sleeping out in an alley somewhere, lest she be raped or killed, or perhaps both, even. Granted there was still a part of her that wouldn't have minded that fate, for the fate she was headed for right now was possibly worse than death. However, she'd already consented to remaining alive, and would therefore have to follow through. That being said, sleeping outside was absolutely out of the question. Since she could not afford an inn, had no family in the city, and did not know where any of her old acquaintances lived, she had reluctantly resorted to her last - and what had proven unavoidable - option.

To be truthful, she'd felt it was much more menacing in the dark. She hadn't liked the sight of the tall mirror at the end of the room, or the draft that crept in underneath the door. The way the wind whistled through all of the destruction at night was more than alarming. It very nearly sounded like something howling in pain, a spirit left behind. Perhaps that of Joseph Buquet or Piangi, or another poor soul that had died under this roof - that had died at the hands of the Ghost.

She'd forced herself to not think about it. If she'd already managed to muster up the courage to actually stay in this building over night, then she wasn't going to scare herself away from doing it by thinking that the place was filled with ghosts of those long dead and gone.

It was as she had pulled the old, tattered blanket full of holes chewed by mice up over her body that the painstaking realization of what her life had become came before her in all its glory. She was there, in the Opera that was once her home, chilled under ratty blankets on a stiff, stale smelling cot instead of at home lying in a comfortable bed with soft linens. She had gone from having everything to having nothing.

Her husband was gone, her precious Raoul. How she'd longed to have him beside her then, to feel his warmth and the security of having him with her. Her chest had wracked with sobs as epiphany washed over her. She would never feel that warmth again, or hear his laughter, see him smile...

And, as if on cue, she had thought she'd heard it.

"Christine..."

It had felt as though it was mocking her. His voice murmuring her name, taunting her while she had wept for the man she'd chosen instead. It was a sick reminder, almost as if it was telling her that she'd made the wrong decision. If she'd stayed this wouldn't have happened. If she'd stayed, nothing would have happened to this place she had loved so dearly.

She had left this place because of a fire, and she had come back because of a fire. Fire was now an enemy. Fire meant change, and permanent change, at that.

She had concluded that it had to be the wind, slithering through the cracks in the walls left by the fire. She'd been hearing things. He wasn't there, why would he be there? He was gone. He had left the same night that she and Raoul had left. The Opera had proven to be empty after the search of its bowels. No one lived here. She was hearing things.

Maybe it was because she was wanting to hear it.

No. Ridiculous. Absurd. She didn't want to hear his voice. She didn't want anything to do with him. Familiar or not, that was one thing that she didn't want to go back to. She would never go back.

But if this was the case... why did she wear his ring?

"Christine..."

She didn't want to hear it. She was hearing things, that was that.

After many attempts to convince herself of this, she'd finally believed it. She had drifted to sleep, but not peacefully. She'd woken several times during the night, alarmed and disoriented only to remember where she was and why she was there. She would calm herself and then lie back down, closing her eyes tightly and willing sleep to come.

And now she woke in the morning to the faint chime of Gare de Lyon in the distance. She counted seven chimes. Christine rubbed her eyes groggily, lying back down for a bit and staring at the ceiling. While she looked forward to her first day of working in Madame Deniel's shop, she found herself not wanting to move. Perhaps it was because of all the thoughts that had consumed her mind the night before. If she just remained here in this bed, she'd just wither away into nothing and not have to face the world. No one came in here - she would never be found. They would tear the Opera down and she would go with it.

The problem with this plan, however, was that she was once again wishing for death when it was not going to come to her. So, after lying in the bed for a half an hour or so, she removed the blanket and stood, stretching and then releasing a soft sigh. She turned and looked into the large mirror, staring at the dusty, blurred reflection of the woman inside it.

She walked up to the mirror, placing one hand on the smooth glass, glass that had gone untouched. There was a layer of dust on it that she wiped away, seeing her face more clearly now. She no longer looked like the young girl who had stared into this mirror so many nights years before. Turning away, she moved back to the wardrobe and pulled the drawer out, grabbing a new gown and donning it. She sat at the vanity with the her old hairbrush, running it through her curls and staring into the mirror at her face, unable to escape the reflection inside it. The reflection no longer a girl, but a woman. A widow.

She quickly stood and turned away from the mirror, unable to confront that thought. It would be a while before she could comfortably call herself that without feeling some sort of emotional backlash.

It didn't matter how many times she told herself that he wasn't there, she still felt a chill as if there was something breathing down her neck. It felt as though there was an undeniable gaze lingering on her form. Clearing her throat, Christine placed the cloak on her shoulders. She didn't want to stay here longer than she had to, and she was already pushing it. It had to be close to eight o'clock if not a little after, and the walk to Madame Deniel's would take her a bit of time. She grabbed her satchel of necessities and once again began her trek into world again, hiding her face beneath the cloak.

She was so consumed in not being seen that she didn't even acknowledge the young boy shouting the lastest headlines to the swarm of eager customers around him.

* * *

><p>"Papers! Get your papers here! Fire at the de Chagny's!" he shouted over and over again. One man stepped forward urgently, very nearly throwing the coins at the boy and snatching up a paper, his eyes devouring the article desperately.<p>

A fire. The de Chagnys... The Vicomte was dead, his body - or more appropriately what was left of his body - found at the scene, and the Vicomtess missing, but believed to be dead as well, as there was no trace of her. They had ruled that - if she had not died in the fire somehow - that she had disappeared into the surrounding trees and had surely died by now.

There was nothing left of the house, and they weren't sure that it could be salvaged in any way. The family had ultimately decided to tear what was left of the house down, not wanting to have it there as a constant reminder of the terrible events that had brought it to such a terrible demise. The funeral was to be held in several days at the family's estate, with friends invited.

For a moment he merely stood, staring blankly at the words in front of him, the occasional person bumping into him and making his balance waver, apologizing casually and then moving on. His feet felt like lead, his being numb. The Vicomtess... Christine.

Christine was dead.

He sucked in a harsh breath and turned on his heel, immediately headed for the home of his friend. He would prepare whatever speech he would attempt to give on the way there.

* * *

><p>The door of Madame Deniel's creaked open, the bell shrieking its alert to the owner that her new employee had arrived. Christine glared up at the bell, almost toying with the idea of creating a game out of whether or not she could slip into the store each morning without ringing the bell.<p>

For a few minutes she admired the gowns on the mannequins. They looked somewhat familiar, perhaps it was just that she'd taken them into account the day before. No matter, it was probably her mind playing tricks on her.

She perked slightly at the sight of Madame Deniel coming out from the back room, and attempted a small smile as the woman greeted her warmly.

"Ah, bonjour, mon chérie! You are early!" She gave a slight laugh and Christine nodded slightly. "Let me show you back here to the other room, and I will set you up for your morning work."

Christine walked after the woman, untying her cloak and draping it over her arm as she followed Madame Deniel behind the counter and into the back room. Dresses, boxes, ribbons... she felt as though her eyes were being assaulted and she didn't know where to look first.

"Now, here... These are the gowns that I need boxed immediately this morning as they're being picked up within the hour..." She proceeded to show her the way to do it, then asked Christine to fill one, perhaps because some ounce of her doubted that she could actually fulfill this incredibly daunting task that lay before her.

Did she really look as though she was so daft that she couldn't simply fold a gown and place it in a box?

But she wouldn't grow frustrated, that was just the emotions of the night before spilling over and manipulating her mood today. She felt as though this was going to be happening for the next few days, weeks, even. She couldn't take it out on Madame Deniel. She couldn't let anyone onto what she was doing, or who she was.

Madame Deniel had left her there, going to tend to the few early morning customers and take a few orders. Christine filled the orders intently, stacking the boxes and bringing them out to Madame Deniel as she had asked for them, never making eye contact with the customers. She would only appear briefly to place the boxes on the counter, and then would vanish. She couldn't risk someone being able to take a long enough look at her that they might recognize who she was.

There was a part of her that was not comfortable with this newly developed paranoia, but then there was the other part that felt it was almost necessary to be that way. How else would she remain alert enough about her surroundings to keep herself one step ahead? She always had to be that much faster than the rest of society to keep her head above water.

Christine was sitting in the back boxing a gentleman's dress suit when she heard the conversation in the front of the store drifting in, just loud enough that she could make it out.

"Did you read the paper this morning?" spoke a gruff voice. An older gentleman, no doubt. Perhaps the one this suit was for.

"No, I didn't. Why do you ask, monsieur?"

"Oh, you didn't hear of the fire then."

Christine's heart nearly stopped. The fire. This man had heard of the fire. The man continued to speak, apparently relaying the story to Madame Deniel, but Christine didn't hear a word he said. Her heart was pounding wildly in her ears, and she felt as though she might suffocate under the weight of the anxiety she suddenly felt. Was she really to be discovered so soon after she'd fled? Her heart was racing, her mind reeling.

What if the suit was for the man? She'd have to go out there. If he knew the story then surely he'd recognize her. Surely he would! What could she do? Perhaps she would just hand the box out to Madame instead of walking it out there... Or she could pretend to not know which box the order was, pretend that she couldn't find it and Madame would have to come retrieve it. Whatever it was, she was going to need to do something.

She was suddenly brought out of her panic by the sound of the bell accompanied by the struggled closing of the door, the man having to jerk it a few times before it closed all the way. He had left.

"Are you alright, Sibylla? You look as though you've seen a ghost!"

Christine almost wanted to laugh. If only Madame Deniel knew of all the ghosts that she'd seen in her life.

"Y-yes... yes Madame. I will be." She cleared her throat and brushed a curl out of her face, gaining her composure again. "Who was that you were speaking with?"

"Ah, that was Monsieur Augustin. He was here to place an order. He was telling me of a terrible fire at the de Chagny manor. Did you hear about it on your way here?"

…This had to be some sort of cruel joke.

Christine shook her head. Madame Deniel relayed the rest of the story to her, the details that Christine already knew about all too well.

"I was never fortunate enough to have an acquaintance with them. Any business that they did with me was through correspondence. But the Vicomtess did love our gowns, her husband often told us that we were the only shop she would consider when she added a new gown to her collection."

She paled at this. Had Christine not... had she not read the sign? Was she in the wrong store? Suddenly she remembered the dresses she'd seen on the mannequins this morning, the ones she had admired as Madame Deniel had greeted her. They had been dresses that were hanging in her closet. Perhaps that was what had drawn her to this store... and she'd been so desperate to find a job that she had just walked in without thinking. Having never been here she didn't know what it looked like, and having not read the name, how was she to know?

"That's most unfortunate that you are losing such a... a devoted customer."

"That it is, mon chérie." Madame sighed and placed her hands on her hips, looking about the room for a moment. "You've done well this morning." She placed a piece of paper on the table near Christine. "Here are several more orders, and once you've finished those you will have your break for lunch."

Christine would have thanked her, but the bell jingled once more and she was off, leaving Christine alone with her thoughts, something that she wasn't sure she wanted at this particular moment in time.

She heard Madame Deniel's voice as she conversed with the customer, but now she heard something that she hadn't heard in previous conversations. It was talk of the fire, of the two lives taken because of it.

With a sigh, she tried to swallow the small lump in her throat, attempting to put on her bravest face she could muster as she picked up the order and began to pack the next box.


	4. Chapter 4

"I'm sorry that I have to tell you this... but she's - ...no. No, that won't work..."

Frustrated, he whirled on his heel and took a few steps in the other direction only to turn abruptly and step the other way once more. If he didn't knock soon then he knew that the door would just open and the man behind it would demand the reason as to why he was on the step pacing back and forth. That was a situation that he would rather avoid.

Clearing his throat, he finally stopped his pacing and knocked on the door swiftly and abruptly. There was a brief pause that felt like he'd been standing there for hours before he heard a hand on the doorknob. His stomach twisted as the door opened to reveal a young man behind it.

Erik had taken it upon himself to hire a servant of sorts, a young man named Damien Bouchard, that he used merely to go into town and fetch things for him or to carry out other trivial tasks. It had been made apparent to Nadir early on after the disaster that when Erik had migrated to this home he would rarely leave it, and such had been the case. Erik had made arrangements for a small guest house to be built for him to stay in, however he spent most of his days in the main house where he could be called at any given time. Nadir was almost surprised to see him answer the door, having expected him to be in town running one of the errands that Erik had assigned him to.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Khan. Here to see Monsieur Durant, I assume?" Nadir nodded. It was almost a stupid question, who else would he be here to see? He reminded himself that now was no time to be short with Erik's help, as it wasn't Damien's fault that Christine was dead. He couldn't let the stress of what he was about to do be displaced on another. "Come in," Nadir stepped inside as Damien stepped out of the way, then closed the door behind him. "Wait here. I will tell him you have come." And with that, Damien disappeared.

Nadir took in the features of the foyer that, by now, he knew very well. The old, but fine, dark wood floors, the lovely, smooth crown moulding at the top of the walls, the beautiful, dark wooden staircase leading up to all the rooms on the upper level, rooms that he'd never seen. He doubted he would ever have the privilege.

The house had been left to Erik by his mother, for as much as she may have despised him he was her only living relation. Truthfully, had Erik not returned to Paris he would not have received the house, as the only way that Madeleine had discovered that he was in the city was through talk of a masked man working to help build the Opera. It wasn't a large house, but it was comfortable, perhaps near the size of his house in the cellars of the Opera if not a bit larger by a few rooms. And what did size matter when it was decorated so elegantly, and so easily displayed the extent of Erik's wealth?

Usually when he stood in the foyer waiting for Damien to return, he would attempt to imagine what could be held in all of those rooms. Music? Books? Spare rooms, guest rooms? Highly unlikely, Erik never took guests. More than that, what guests did he have? No one else visited him, as far as he knew.

Today, however, was a different story. Instead of envisioning the inside of all the rooms upstairs, he was attempting to imagine what was going to happen the moment that he finally relayed the news of Christine's death to Erik. There was a part of him that wanted Damien to come back and say that Erik refused to see him, but that had rarely been the case before. Erik usually had no reason to reject his visits unless he was in a foul mood for no reason at all. A foul mood, however, didn't always stop him, and had Nadir been a Christian he would have prayed to God a thousand times over that today he was in no such mood.

Or perhaps he should have hoped that Erik would already be in a terrible mood, at least he wouldn't be absolutely ruining his day that way.

"Monsieur Durant will see you in the drawing room." Damien's voice had thrown him from his thoughts, and he instantly felt his mouth run dry. He swallowed with some difficulty, then cleared his throat slightly and nodded, beginning to follow Damien to the drawing room where Erik waited at the door.

"Ah, Daroga. To what do I owe such a great honor to receive such a visit today?" If he hadn't known him well enough he would have been offended by the bitter greeting.

"Erik, now's not the time for such trivial sarcasm. There's something I need to tell you."

He was silent for a moment before moving away from the door and allowing Nadir to step into the room. Usually, even when Nadir insisted on the gravity of a situation Erik rarely took him seriously. There must have been something on his countenance, something somber, that alerted him to the fact that this time it really was something serious.

The room was furnished magnificently of course, just like the rest of the rooms Nadir had been fortunate enough to see, and Erik was dressed to the nines in the way that he always was. To be truthful, he wasn't entirely sure that Erik ever wore the same thing twice. He followed Erik further into to the drawing room, and sat across from him in one of the fine chairs. Had he not been here on such a serious note he would have taken the time to admire the fine embroidered cushion and the elegant curve of the wooden legs and arms.

He was dreading having to bring up this subject. While he did not know where Christine stood with Erik any longer, he could obviously be sure of the fact that at one point she had been his entire world. No man killed for a woman that meant nothing to him. Perhaps his esteem for her had fallen. Well, to a certain extent it had undoubtedly, as she had ended up with the other man, the handsome Vicomte. Perhaps the disdain he felt for the young man spilled over into a generalized disdain for her as well. He didn't know, they didn't talk of these things when Nadir visited.

Then again, when did he ever visit? Not incredibly frequently. Erik wasn't exactly the best company to keep, but as Nadir was his only friend - well, if you could call them friends - a certain part of him felt strangely... obliged to at least see him now and then. More often than not it was to make sure that he hadn't managed to harm himself, to see that he was still eating, maybe to try and convince him to see a doctor if he was ill. He always feared knocking on the door one day only to have no one answer it.

But this... this was an entirely different sort of errand that he was here for. He wasn't just here to make sure that Erik wasn't dead. He was here to try and explain to him that someone else was. He was trying to explain the death of the woman he had spent so many years teaching, so many years pining for. If she was the only woman Erik had loved, then somehow it would have to affect him.

"So. What is it that you've come to tell me that's so important that you so sternly dismiss our usual sarcastic banter." Erik stated rather blatantly, not even questioning.

Without saying a word, Nadir leaned forward in his chair and unrolled the newspaper that he now realized he'd been clenching tightly. He laid it on the coffee table in front of Erik so that he could read the headline. He watched as his eyes scanned the headline, then he looked back up, watching silently as Nadir spoke.

"She's gone."

He didn't react.

That was just what Nadir was afraid of. No reaction was worse than him shrugging it off. No reaction was worse than him pretending it didn't phase him. No reaction was worse than rage. No reaction was worse than despair.

Nadir never removed his eyes from Erik, who, at some point, had shifted his gaze away to stare beyond him to the opposing wall. He rested his elbow on the arm of one chair, his hand his mouth, fingertips tracing the outline of his lips. What could he be thinking about? Was he attempting to register what he'd just heard? Nadir doubted that it was an attempt to keep his emotions in check, for unless he was in a fit of rage he rarely showed any other sort of emotion any more. Sorrow, even, was usually hidden away, and if it did surface it usually followed a bout of rage in some way or another.

Perhaps he was in the midst of recalling all of the memories he'd had with Christine. He could be thinking of her in her purest form when he'd first met her, when she had been such a young child, broken and hurt. He could be thinking of the first time he had taken her below the Opera to his home. Or he could be thinking of the last time, the time when she had agreed to stay with him only for him to send her away.

He could be regretting that decision. If Nadir knew Erik as well as he thought he did, then right now he was probably punishing himself for thinking that he'd done what was best for her, because apparently what he had thought had been the best for her lead directly to her death. If she had stayed with him in the bowels of the Opera she would have been safe from flames, safe from death. She would have been swallowed in darkness, rarely if ever seeing the light of day, but at least she would have been safe. She would have been alive.

"If that is all..."

His voice was quiet, firm. His composure didn't crack. Nadir cleared his throat and stood, knowing that he was being dismissed. More often than not the unspoken communication between the two of them was more powerful than what was actually verbalized.

A part of him hesitated, however, and he almost turned around with the intent to stay. Was he so sure that he wanted to leave, or was that just his nerves telling him he wanted to be away from Erik? And as far as Erik went, could he be sure that he wouldn't do something drastic? He probably could be sure of that, however, as Erik was not exactly impulsive. His plans were more premeditated, he thought things through before carrying them out. The question now was whether or not he really wanted to leave him alone now that he had gained the knowledge of Christine's fate and leave him to potentially wreak havoc on himself, to punish himself for something that he'd been unable to prevent. Ultimately deciding it would be best to leave him alone to think it over, he continued on his way out of the room.

He showed himself out of the drawing room, and had only but touched the doorknob of the front door when he heard the sound of wood snapping as it was flung against the wall, engaged in a duet with cries of anguish and rage from the throat of sole inhabitant of the room.

Instantly he knew it was the wooden legs of one of the precious, expensive chairs he had been seated in only minutes before.

* * *

><p>Somewhere on the other side of the city, unbeknownst to the Daroga and his unfortunate friend, however, Christine sat in a small room, breathing and very much alive. She was finishing her shift in Madame Deniel's shop and preparing to leave, wrapping her cloak around her body and tying it, lifting the hood and hiding her curls beneath it. On her way to the front of the shop she stopped and spoke with Madame Deniel, merely to let her know that she was on her way out to grab herself some food for her short lunch break.<p>

Having gained her approval, she slipped out the door and headed down the sidewalk, keeping her eyes pointed at the ground for the most part to attempt to keep from making any unwanted eye contact, occasionally looking up and accidentally meeting someone's eye anyway. Little did she know that as she floated down the walk she had passed the young Monsieur Bouchard, whom she had passed and given a brief smile, as he was out finishing up his daily errands. Had he known who she was and how significant she was in his life, he would have been able to relieve the torment of his master with joyful news that his lost love was still alive.

What _she_ noticed, however, was the way that he had looked at her as she had passed - almost admiringly, in the way that a man looks at a woman when he finds her to be appealing to the eye. It had made her uncomfortable and she felt as though he was analyzing her face as if trying to deduce where he had seen it before, and she had immediately looked away to prevent this from happening, continuing down the sidewalk at a slightly faster pace in order to be out of his presence sooner. Perhaps she was just paranoid, she would probably feel that anyone who passed her on the street and looked at her face was attempting to recognize her.

However, when he spoke to her she felt her heart take off at an alarming speed.

"Mademoiselle? Pardon me, could you direct me to the - " He knew exactly where he was going, he was only attempting to make conversation so that he might win a few minutes with her. She hadn't given him any reason to finish however, as she never stopped to listen to him. As far as he knew, he remained unacknowledged.

Christine had never been so rude as to completely ignore someone as they spoke to her, but these were special circumstances. She couldn't risk anything. Every person she came in contact with she risked being recognized, so she needed to keep that list small. He wasn't going to be added to it. With that thought in mind she walked even faster, hearing him attempt to call after her at first, then giving up. She had no intention of turning around and going back.

She would never know that he had watched her go, so intrigued with her that he stared after her until her form disappeared around the corner as if she were a fleeting trace of beauty likely to never be seen again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **  
>Sorry for the slight delay on Chapter 5 everyone... I just got back from a four day trip to New York City. Saw Phantom with Hugh Panaro and Trista Moldovan, and contributed to Broadway Cares - meaning I left the show with a poster signed by the whole cast! (I couldn't afford the $500 monkey music box that Hugh signed...) Now I'm just waiting for the day when I'll be out there with the rest of them.<p>

But in the mean time, here is Chapter 5! Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed so far, please keep it up, I appreciate all of your comments! I hope you are enjoying Absolution, I'm enjoying writing it. :)

* * *

><p>Damien had often tried to catch a glimpse of her after that, but nevertheless she eluded him. To say that she hadn't left his mind since that evening would be more of an understatement than anything else. Ever since that evening on the sidewalks of Paris when he'd first seen her, she had been drifting in and out of his thoughts. On more than one occasion he found himself thanking God that he had seen her, that her face was burned into his memory.<p>

It was almost sad to think that one chance encounter had made her such a special creature for him, that she suddenly meant so much to him when he didn't even know her name. It was more pathetic to think of what she meant to his master while Damien felt that she was slowly becoming his world. If only he knew, if only he knew that she had once been more than the world to his master. It would have given him some insight to Monsieur Durant's terrible moods as of late.

The connection between his master and the young woman was not obvious by any means, no one would ever think to make the connection unless they knew of all that had transpired during her time at the Opera. As far as Damien knew, Monsieur Durant had never been involved with any women, and never in his wildest dreams would he have guessed the extent to which he had been involved with his mysterious lady. He often wondered if it had anything to do with the mask. While he didn't know what lay under the mask that he always wore, but he could only imagine that it was something that no woman would desire. He didn't just do it for eccentric flair, that was for certain. It had to be there to hide something.

From that day on, the day he'd first seen her, he had kept his eyes peeled every time he went into town for Monsieur Durant, and he often walked the same path that he had been walking when he had first run across her. Every time he would set out praying that she would turn up somewhere, that he'd turn a corner and she'd suddenly be there before him again, and that this time he might actually be able to persuade her to speak instead of just run off.

Alas, his luck remained the same: nonexistent. He never saw her again after that singular encounter, but nevertheless this didn't dampen his spirits as much as one may have expected it to. He was still blissfully unaware of the foolish disappointment he continuously set himself up for, he had not yet learned how valuable and simple it was to protect oneself from this childish pain. He would walk the same way - even if it was out of his way - every time. He would allow himself to get his hopes up, only for them to be deflated once again.

A fleeting beauty indeed.

* * *

><p>Christine had spent her time differently. A month had passed, a month full of ups and downs and various disasters. Seeing as a month of saving her wages would not be enough to rent herself a flat, and her wages mostly went to buying food to silence her constantly growling stomach, she'd decided she had no other choice but to continue staying at the Opera.<p>

The decision had certainly been far from ideal, to say the least. She had hoped that she would be away from the Opera sooner than this. She'd known it wasn't a realistic goal, but she had hoped for it all the same. The Opera only seemed to ooze darkness, and it haunted her every night with events of years past while it would continue to give her new things to fear the moment the sun fell below the horizon.

There had been many a time when she had been lying in bed at night only to hear noises coming from another region of the building. She would always quietly take the key out of the vanity and lock her door, thus considering herself safe from whatever was exploring the Opera.

Other times she hadn't been so lucky. One particular night would always come to mind when she would recall any recent frightening experiences.

She had been creeping into the Opera and had heard a commotion and several sets of footsteps. Her heart had skipped more than one beat in that moment, and until she had been able to decipher the fact that they were coming down the hall - probably heading to another area of the Opera - she had hidden herself in the shadow of a large column, watching as the three men ran by. Probably looting, she had thought, as there were still a few things of value left in the building that could be sold off.

She remembered feeling a chill shoot up her spine the moment after she'd emerged from the shadow when they'd gone. It was as if the Opera had taken on a new ghost. The thought had repulsed her and she had immediately gone back to her room, making sure to lock the door behind her so the looters, and whatever else could have been dwelling in the Opera, couldn't be given a chance to find her.

Some nights she had been brave enough to venture into other various districts of the Opera. The stage, the dressing rooms, prop and costume rooms... It had been challenging and it had taken her weeks to work up the nerve, but she had finally convinced herself to do it. What she had seen had stunned her, and no matter how much she had tried to prepare herself for it, it had been obvious that nothing would have properly equipped her for the kind of shock that had been waiting for her.

The glorious curtains were now virtually gone, there was nothing left of them but red scraps with jagged, blackened edges. The seats had been destroyed where the chandelier had crashed down from the ceiling, and the stage was covered in rubble, but the set of Don Juan was still detectable when one searched for it. Against her better judgment she had climbed onto the stage, thinking perhaps that for some odd reason that she might have ended up being reminiscent instead of horrified at the feelings that spawned in her.

It couldn't have been longer than several seconds that she had stood there. Ultimately she had ended up quickly deciding that she had been in no way comfortable enough being in the building for that, and on her way back to the room she had all but ran the entire way. While that attempt had proven completely unsuccessful, it was a start, and at the time she had thought that if she was going to be housing herself in the Opera longer than expected she might as well attempt to re-familiarize with what was left of it.

However, what she didn't know at the time was that she wouldn't have to work on it for much longer.

In, out, in, out, the occasional finger-prick followed by a sharp hiss through clenched teeth. After so much time, Madame Deniel trusted her to work repairs and alterations, where her attention was currently focused. She was kneeling on the floor at the feet of a mannequin, stitching up a hem with a tear in it. The woman who had bought the dress had noticed the tear, which could have easily happened while another customer was trying the dress on, and had all but demanded it be fixed immediately.

"Sibylla?" She heard the voice of Madame Deniel and was pulled from what she was doing, looking up from the hem of the dress. "Oh, good. You're almost done with that, aren't you?" She nodded once, still stitching as she did so. "I have a few orders for you to box up, and several to deliver as well on your way home." Christine nodded once more, tying the knot and sticking the needle back in the pin cushion.

She stood and brushed off her skirts, then examined her work, and feeling satisfied she turned and began to box the orders Madame Deniel had brought into the room. She hummed quietly, stacking them on top of each other when she had finished, then pulled on her cloak. Deliveries were a normal thing, and Madame often sent her out to take care of them. She picked up the three boxes and moved out of the room, bidding Madame Deniel goodbye as she picked up the list and made her way out the door.

Her spirits had undergone a gradual change throughout the month. While she wasn't the innocent, optimistic woman she'd been before the fire, she was at least capable of having an occasional laugh with Madame, or smiling at something on the street that otherwise would have spurred tears a month before. She was still on bad terms with the shop bell, but she was learning to tolerate it, at least. Slowly but surely.

Talk of the fire was still prevalent in much of the city, and a day never seemed to pass without her hearing something about Raoul and herself spilling from someone's lips. There had been another article in the paper after the funeral, perhaps as a way of the press attempting to put a final sense of closure on the situation. It didn't seem to really do too much, however. There was still constant mention of the de Chagnys.

This did very little to quell Christine's constant paranoia - she was still always on her guard, keeping her hand at the level of her eyes, so to say, to prevent herself from being enclosed within the punjab lasso of discovery. What on earth would the city do if they learned she was actually alive after a month of mourning her death? Surely all hell would break loose. Not to mention the city, but what about the rest of Raoul's family? They would be absolutely enraged, without a doubt.

While Christine had never been entirely sure of his family's opinions of her, she knew that they had to at least be unhappy that he had married someone of such a lower social status. It was one thing to marry someone of the middle class, but to marry a girl from the Opera... well, it was highly discouraged for someone of Raoul's position, to say the least.

It was clear, however, that Raoul's tremendous persistence, or perhaps his stubbornness, had paid off. It was pitiful to look at where that persistence had gotten them now. He was dead, and she was essentially living on the streets and making wages that she was barely living off of. Such a fulfilling life she'd proved to be leading. She'd gone from having everything to having nothing.

She had dropped off the first package in the course of these thoughts, and was just handing the second to its owner, giving a small smile and turning away before pulling out the small list Madame had scribbled for her with the delivery addresses. Hm, an Antoinette... And she lived relatively close to the Opera. How convenient, she could drop it on the way home instead of having to go out of her way.

She began her way down the walk once more, occasionally checking to make sure that her hood hadn't fallen away without her knowing. Deliveries tended to make her feel rather insecure, she never knew who was going to open the door when she stood there. At least on the sidewalks she could tell who was walking towards her. Even then her eyes were usually pointed at the sidewalk, as she still hadn't been able to overcome her fear of making eye contact with people as she passed them. Her desperation to keep from being recognized was an ongoing thing, and she wasn't sure if there was an end in sight as long as the people of Paris remembered who Christine de Chagny was. They believed her to be dead, and sometimes she even had to remind herself of this. For someone to realize she was actually alive would be disastrous after a month of mourning.

Often times she wondered what the funeral had been like - what music they had played, what kind of flowers had been there. Who had spoken on their behalf, and more than that, what had they said? She wondered who had picked out their gravestone and what kind they had chosen.

Surely they had buried a coffin for her... They couldn't have just buried Raoul's if it was meant to be a funeral for two people. But an empty coffin? Obviously they were closed at the funeral, she wasn't even sure of what Raoul's remains looked like... or if they even existed. Perhaps his coffin was empty too. Perhaps they had just placed mementos inside of them, things to remember them by. Even so, it was an eerie thought to think that there was an empty coffin underground next to the one with her husband potentially inside it.

It was as if that coffin was merely waiting for her.

Unfortunately for it, she wasn't about to give it the satisfaction of knowing she would take her place inside it. From this day forward she would have to remain Sibylla, and she would have to die Sibylla. The only person that would know of her existence would be Madame Deniel, and to Christine's dismay she would probably be gone some time before she should ever be six feet under.

She turned a corner, and with that she attempted to clear her head of those thoughts, and instead chose to focus on finding the proper address. She looked up at each number as she passed it, soon enough coming upon the right door and walking up to it. After double-checking the address slip once to make sure that there was no way she had gotten the wrong door, she lifted a hand to knock, holding the box underneath her other arm, waiting silently for the door to open.

Inside, upon hearing the sound of knocking on the door, the curtain was pulled back slightly to peek out the window, taking in the sight of a cloaked woman standing on the step with a box under her arm.

"Ah, the girl from the dress shop is here!"

Christine had been staring down at her shoes, waiting for the moment that the door would open and she'd be able to promptly pass off the package and be on her way home. She'd heard the muffled sound of a voice, as well as the sound of footsteps drawing nearer and nearer to the door. There was the sound of the hand on the doorknob, and then the door swinging open. Christine looked up with a smile, only for it to falter as she took in the sight of the familiar face standing in the doorway, the happy greeting that they'd begun immediately cut short.

"Bonj- ...oh... oh my God..."


	6. Chapter 6

Her gut told her to run, but her legs weren't moving.

"Christine? ...Oh my God, Christine!"

So this was the home of the Antoinette she was to deliver the dress to.

_Go! Go!_ Her mind screamed at her, but the only thing she could do was stand horrified with her mouth agape, unable to make herself move. Her hands clutched the box, holding it against her chest, her knuckles white with pressure._ Why aren't you moving? Move your legs!_ But how could she flee when she wasn't even able to think? There were so many thoughts flying in and out of her brain that she couldn't sort them all. She couldn't stop them - just when she felt that she had a hand on one it would slip away and vanish, leaving her helpless and defenseless.

Suddenly it felt like everything was coming down around her. Her attempt to disappear was falling to pieces that would be too small to pick up. Now that someone knew she was alive, surely the entire city would know soon, and then there would be an uproar. She didn't want to think of what Raoul's family would do when they knew.

Why wasn't she running?

Her stunned hesitation was what ultimately ended any chance of escape. Her mind was humming, she almost didn't comprehend the feeling of arms wrapping around her and holding her tightly while a voice buzzed in her ear, laughing and crying and shrieking with joy. It was then that she felt the gush of air flow from her lungs, that she felt the way her senses were dizzied and chaotic. She felt her mind coming back to her, and that was when panic struck her.

She couldn't run, but the streets were still filled with people. People who would have heard and seen the entire commotion that was commencing on the step. They would know. Maybe they already did know now, and maybe they were going to spread what they'd just heard to all of their friends and family. Christine de Chagny wasn't dead, she was standing on a doorstep delivering dresses. She looked about frantically, still attempting to hide her face in the process, concluding that the outburst hadn't alerted anyone to her true identity.

"Let go, please... Please let me go! I need to - " She broke away and ducked inside the house, pulling the other young woman inside with her and very nearly slamming the door closed in time to hear angry footsteps coming from another room, the heels of boots clacking angrily on the wooden floor.

"Marguerite Giry, why on earth are you making such a - " The woman stopped in her tracks and her face paled. She looked as though she'd seen a ghost.

Funny, she'd seen enough of ghosts in her time that one would think it wouldn't come as such a shock to see one more.

"No... It can't be... Is it really you?"

Christine nodded.

"But you're supposed to be... You're not...?"

"No, Madame." She shifted her weight, suddenly feeling insecure. "I escaped the house."

"And why are you here?"

She held up the box with the dress inside, "I've come with this."

Christine was beginning to feel more uncomfortable every minute - every second, even. She knew that she would have to retell the story to the two of them if she wanted to justify her hiding in any way. It was obviously unavoidable now. "Could we... uhm... Could we sit, please? I know that I need to explain myself."

"Yes, an explanation for why you've let Paris think you dead for so long would seem appropriate." Christine pursed her lips at the comment. She should have expected Madame's reaction to be nothing short of livid. While Christine considered herself an adult and not subject to the scoldings that Madame used to lash out at her with, she knew it was only in Madame's character to scold her as if she was still a ballet rat under her watch with every move dictated by the crack of a cane on the floor. She looked to Meg who was still beaming, merely rejoicing in the fact that her friend was standing before her, too sweet and too optimistic to hold a grudge against Christine's actions at this point. Surely she would realize later how Christine had so wrongly abused their emotions.

"Come Christine," Meg said, grabbing her hand and pulling her in the direction of a small parlour where a fire burned quietly in the fireplace. It looked as though it was a comfortable home, one of the few townhouses in the city. They couldn't have owned it for very long. Perhaps Madame purchased it with her saved wages from the opera. Or perhaps Erik had given her some sort of pension before he'd left, something to repay her for keeping his secret. Regardless, it was a lovely home, and even while she was terrified of being in this house under such circumstances she had to recognize that. It was comforting to know that Madame and Meg had lived comfortably after the Opera had been destroyed.

They sat, and after a short, tense silence, she retold the story of what had occurred the night that she had fled the burning home and left Christine de Chagny behind. Madame sat in silence, but Meg sat next to her on the small loveseat and held her hand. She seemed to understand now the seriousness of what Christine had done, and spoke, the hurt evident in her voice.

"Why did you do it?"

"After all of that... I just... I didn't want to face anything. I wanted to hide. To be honest I wished I had died in the fire," she saw Meg cringe out of the corner of her eye. "I didn't want to deal with the reality of it all. I needed to get away from it, and... and by hiding away where no one knew I was alive I didn't have to face it. I didn't have to deal with everything that came with having a dead husband, with being known as a widow... I admit that it was a terrible thing to do, but I hadn't thought it through, and by the time I had my mind about me it was too late and I'd committed to the decision."

Madame's expression had softened slightly throughout the course of the story. "What are you doing now?"

"I'm working in a dress shop, that's how I ended up here. I work for Madame Deniel." Madame nodded.

"And where are you staying?" Christine hesitated. She couldn't tell her about how she was staying in the Opera. Part of the reason she stayed there was to stay undiscovered. If she stayed in an actual home, then she risked more people discovering that she was actually still alive. She had to cling to some shred of her plan.

"I'm renting a small flat." That was all she planned to say on the matter. Madame raised her chin slightly, then shifted in the chair.

"I suppose then that it is safe to assume that no one else knows that you are alive?" Christine nodded in reply. "Well. I understand your situation, I understand your reaction. It was an impulsive move, but you've apparently made it work."

Meg squeezed Christine's hand. "Is there anything that we can help you with at all? Surely it must be hard for you to pay your own rent and buy things to take care of yourself on meager dress shop wages."

For a moment, Christine found herself very nearly wanting to cry. Here she sat, having completely blocked the two of them out of her life. Surely they too had mourned with the rest of the city. How could she do that to Madame, to Meg? Wasn't Meg supposed to be her best friend?

Yet, here she was, sitting in their parlour with Meg obviously sympathetic, casting her hurt feelings aside, simply radiating joy knowing that her best friend was sitting beside her, knowing that her best friend was breathing beside her. Meg had always been rather naive, she had always been forgiving and rather able to see past things others couldn't. Christine, through the course of her events, through her experiences at the Opera, had lost so much of that blessed naivety that Meg still possessed.

She wasn't exactly sure when she had become a woman, whether it was in the cellars of the Opera when she was deciding her fate or when she was confronted with a fire that decided it for her and left her with nothing. She'd yet to completely discover the real answer, and she wasn't entirely sure that she was capable of pinpointing the real moment at the current juncture.

She was ashamed for putting them through it, to the extent of grief they'd obviously felt. Perhaps they had even visited the grave. How many others had visited and left tokens of respect? The thought of Meg having left flowers on her grave was chilling, and for the first time she felt remorse for the way she had so spontaneously decided to shut out everything that she knew. It was now occurring to her just how many people had felt grief because of her and Raoul's tragedy.

However, that didn't change the fact that now she had to continue to conceal herself. Nothing would change that. She couldn't just stop with this plan, she couldn't just reemerge from the wreckage of the ordeal after a month and attempt to explain what she had done. That would be more trying than the life she was leading now.

"Well... Food is sometimes hard to come by, and a good bath. I don't hardly use the water in the flat," Liar. "I mean, I don't want to have to pay for it later in money I don't have." Deep inside she knew that it obviously wasn't that she didn't want to pay for water, it was that she had no access to it in the Opera. She had managed to find means of washing herself often enough that she could look presentable. She figured that Madame Deniel would begin to question her if she became progressively dirtier every morning that she entered the shop.

Meg looked to her mother. It was as if she was asking if they could take in a stray puppy and take care of it, like she was promising that she would feed it and brush it and take it for walks. While Madame had no trouble refusing Meg more often than not, there was a special place in her heart for Christine that made it hard for her to refuse her, even when she should have been disgustingly angry. And that wasn't to say she wasn't angry - but it was such a blessing to have Christine alive and breathing in front of her instead of the alternative that she'd believed for so long now. It was hard to stay when when she knew that if she didn't help her there was a chance she would have to then live with the knowledge that it wasn't a giant house fire that had killed Christine, but a different kind. The kind of fire one felt when furious and unable to forgive.

Ultimately she knew what she had to do, even if it was difficult for her to choke the words out now while she was still somewhat annoyed with Christine's notorious impulsivity. "We can help you with that. We could provide you with some food when you need it, and you can come here to bathe when you know that you are using more water than you can afford."

"Thank you, Madame. I know I don't deserve such a privilege... and... and I don't know how I can thank you for your kindness."

Madame Giry gave her first half-smile throughout the entire visit, though she still looked visibly irritated under the surface and a bit shaken by the events. "You can come to visit more often than simply when you need something. Seeing as you've survived on your own for so long, I don't know when that will be, and now that I know you're alive I would like to see more of you."

Meg stood, still holding Christine's hand. "Come, Christine. Let us go up to my room - we can sit and talk until you must leave." They left the room, and Meg pulled her up the stairs. "I am so happy that you are here, I didn't know what to do thinking that you were... well, gone."

Their chatter drifted away up the stairs, and Madame sat in the parlour attempting to make sense of everything that had just happened. Christine... she was alive. No one else knew. She'd been hiding herself somewhere in a flat, working in a dress shop while the de Chagnys buried her with her husband. She sat for quite a while, her brain mulling over all of the new and old information when a new thought occurred to her.

Did he know?

She stood and walked to the desk in the corner, pulling out a piece of stationery and beginning to write. She wasn't sure how much time had passed when she heard the young ladies coming down the stairs again, but she quickly finished the short note and stood from her chair to take a moment to re-read it before she would mail it the next day.

_Erik,_  
><em>I am sure that by now you have heard the news of the fire at the de Chagny manor, and of the fates of both the Vicomte and his wife. While I do not know how the news has affected you, I can be sure that the news I send you now will shock you at least twice as much as the previous things you've heard.<em>  
><em>Christine is alive, and was sitting in my parlour speaking with me not long before I sat down to write this. She is upstairs with Marguerite right now. How you act on this news I will not dictate, but considering your past together and that Christine has no intention of making her existence known to the public or anyone beyond the three of us, I felt obligated to inform you.<em>  
><em>Yours,<em>  
><em>A. Giry<em>

She folded it up and placed it on the desk behind her just as Christine and Meg walked through the door.

"I must go, it is getting somewhat late and I prefer to be in my flat before the sun sets." Christine hugged Meg tightly, her spirits having lifted slightly after they had filled each other in on what had happened since they'd last met before the fire. It was actually a mild relief to have someone know of her existence. She was finding that it felt like less of a burden, less like she had to try so hard to keep herself concealed because now she had help.

"Be safe, child." Madame walked over and placed a hand on her arm, squeezing it gently. Christine nodded, then turned to go, but paused before she reached the door. She turned around again, then reached up to her neck to remove a chain with a small locket. It was a locket that she'd received as a gift when she was a young girl, and she'd worn it almost every day and was rarely seen without it. She took Madame's hand and pressed the locket into it, then closing her fingers around it. "What are you doing, Christine?"

"I want you to have it. I can't repay you in any other way, and... should something truly happen to me in the near future for any reason, I want you to have something to remember me by. I wasn't able to give you anything like this before, and I almost didn't have the chance to." She turned and looked to Meg. "I can't thank either of you enough for the kindness you've shown me. I don't deserve it, not after what I've done to you, after I put you through so much grief to... well, to benefit myself, in a way." She gave each of them one last hug, then bid them goodbye and slowly walked out of the room.

Madame Giry felt the pull of the letter as it sat on her desk, now feeling like a weight on her shoulders. Christine's explanation played through her mind. Disappearing, she didn't want anyone to know of her existence. Was it really her own obligation to let him know solely because she wasn't sure if Christine would do it? Perhaps she felt as though Christine owed it to him to let him know - he deserved no more pain on Christine's behalf. Granted, she had many reasons to avoid him at all costs as well...

She found herself wanting to send the letter, but hesitating because she was no longer sure if she had the nerve to betray Christine's confidence, seeing how she'd essentially redeemed herself for her actions. She clutched the necklace in her fist.

If Christine wanted him to know, then she would let him know somehow.

Meg sighed upon hearing the click of the front door signaling Christine's departure. She turned to look at her mother who now stood at the fireplace, a small folded up piece of stationery in one hand, the locket in the other. She walked over to her and gave her a brief hug before turning and leaving the room, her footsteps on the stairs alerting her mother to her whereabouts.

Madame Giry stared at the paper, her lips set in a firm line, then gently dropped it in the fire.

It wasn't her place to tell him.


	7. Chapter 7

From that day forward, Christine had made a point to visit the Girys as regularly as she could. She'd made a goal to visit at least once a week, usually on Sunday just after Madame and Meg had returned from church. Occasionally she would bathe there, other times they would give her a bit of food to take home with her. Now and then Meg even invited her for lunch over her free hour during the week, and she would go then carefully make her way back to Madame Deniel's shop always avoiding eyes and moving quickly.

Even after all this time, she still felt that the less time she spent out on the streets in public the better. Her paranoia very nearly dictated every movement for her. Every step was taken with such care, every glance made with caution to ensure that she wouldn't catch the eye of someone who would stop to ask themselves where they had seen her face before.

The unsuspected rendezvous with the Girys, while it had been rather comforting to finally be able to associate with a familiar face instead of always thinking that she was going to be alone for the rest of her days, had made her aware of just how easy it was to make a small mistake that would lead to someone uncovering her secret. While the encounter with the Girys had not exactly been her fault, seeing as she had essentially been led to them because of a dress delivery, it was still unsettling to her.

All of these conclusions lead her to decide to avoid as much time on the streets as possible. One chance encounter had created an entirely new dimension of insecurity, and ultimately she felt that the more she wandered around the city the more she was putting herself at risk for yet another person finding out who she really was.

However, sometimes when one goes to great measures to prevent something the only thing they accomplish is unknowingly leading themselves directly back into the trap.

She was finishing lunch in the Girys home, sitting with Meg at the small table and conversing about the older days in the Opera, perhaps arguing about a certain event that had transpired during one of the shows, or which girl had butchered one of the ballets and had therefore received a harsh scolding, and trying to sort out who it was that had been at the center of it. Madame had finished her lunch and retreated to her bedroom. She looked up at the clock. She needed to leave if she was going to make it back to the shop on time.

"I must go, Meg, or I'll be late," she said. "Thank you for inviting me for lunch once again." She gave her a quick hug. "I will see you soon, I promise!" And with that she began towards the door, opening it before calling behind her, "And I know it was Cecilia!"

She closed the door before Meg had a chance to reply, giggling slightly and descending the steps to begin her walk back. It had been at least three weeks or so since she'd been reunited with the Girys. It was time that she now considered invaluable. The feelings of loss and grief were still very real, but having something to keep her mind off of such things was helpful. But in the inevitable moments when nothing could keep her thoughts away from Raoul, their friendship was just as priceless for her. It was relieving to know that she was no longer grieving alone, even if part of their grief had been for her. The one common grief they shared now was Raoul, and having someone who could legitimately comfort her in her distress was something that she'd only realized she'd gone too long without once she gained it again.

It would have taken her twice as long to be able to think of smiling again had she continued by herself. Meg's laughter was infectious, it was impossible to stop her joyful moods from spreading. Christine found herself laughing more often, something that even spread to her work in Madame Deniel's shop. For the longest time she had been able to laugh along half-heartedly with Madame Deniel, but now as she grew accustomed to the life, she found that it was acceptable to try to feel happy again in the midst of her always being on her guard. And, as if to top it all off, that horrid bell in the shop was becoming more and more tolerable every day, much to her surprise, and even more so on the days when she passed under it after visiting Meg and Madame. She felt that it would be soon that she'd be able to pass under it without cursing it in someway. Perhaps soon she would think of it with delight. Perhaps soon she would be completely happy again, completely free of worry.

Raoul would have wanted that for her, wouldn't he?

While Raoul wasn't always the forefront of her thoughts, he was always there. There were moments where she would see a woman with her hand on a man's arm and her heart would ache for him. When she lied on the musty mattress in her dressing room at night she found herself wanting his arms around her, his voice in her ear whispering softly. It was hard knowing that she would never hear him tell her that he loved her again, she would never hear him say that he was the happiest man alive as long as she was with him. The absence of his presence was more real at this moment than it had ever been - a month and a half without him had made it startlingly prominent.

More than that, when she really thought about it, she had no one else that fully understood the extent of the events that had occurred in her past at the Opera besides Raoul. No one except _him... _And who knew when she would see the likes of him again, or if she ever would. He could be gone for all she knew. She wasn't entirely sure whether he would be a source of comfort or not, either. It didn't matter. She wanted Raoul back. Nothing was going to change that. She would always want Raoul back.

Perhaps that was the naivety of loss. It led her to become childish in her desires, to be fussy and rather selfish, but justifiably so. That in turn led her to be unable to understand why she couldn't have Raoul back, why life had been so unfair to her in its decision to so suddenly take him away from her. She refused to think that her desire to have Raoul back would ever change, that she would ever miss him less or be able to move on from him.

Granted, all of this was probably true. Why should she stop missing her husband? Why should she ever stop wanting to have him back? This was the only thing - the fact that he was her husband - that made her consider what could be called her "childish tendencies" of demanding that Raoul suddenly be alive again and back in her arms even remotely justifiable. If he was alive she could be living in the comfort of their home, knowing that there were days where if they didn't want to leave each other's arms in the morning that they wouldn't have to leave the bed instead of creeping through an old, destroyed Opera house to find a place to sleep knowing that she wouldn't have that option the next morning.

Since her visits had begun with Meg and Madame, however, she found living at the Opera to be more tolerable than it had been before. Perhaps because now she had something that she could look forward to the next day after the sun sank below the horizon. Life didn't necessarily have new meaning because of this event, but it had given her something that she could cling to. It was yet another sense of familiarity, a sense of security. If things became worse at the Opera, if she needed to leave for some reason, she could go to the Girys knowing that they would take her in.

She walked along the streets, keeping a keen eye out for anyone that she might have to attempt to avoid. She turned the corner, stopping and glancing up for a moment, looking about before continuing on her way.

That was when he saw her.

He almost ran to her, it had taken everything within him to restrain himself. It had been virtually a month and a half since he'd seen her last, he couldn't ruin it again. He was standing across the street from her and had seen her stop. In truth, had she kept going, he wouldn't have noticed her in the crowd of moving people. He let her begin walking again, then crossed the street and chose to slink along behind her at a safe distance, his eyes never leaving her cloaked head.

Perhaps he could use this time to uncover things about her that she was apparently going to avoid telling him. If she wouldn't even stop to give him directions, he doubted he could stop her to talk long enough to make any sort of acquaintance. He would have to play the sleuth until he was capable of finding a way to make contact with her.

Damien felt no shame in doing any of this, if it meant learning something about this young woman he felt that he would go to the end of the earth and back to make sure that he wouldn't fail.

It also didn't occur to him just how much his well-being depended on her. If he had known the way that his face had lit up in the moment that he had picked out her face amongst the others, he perhaps would have been a bit embarrassed. How could his happiness depend on her, how could he love her so deeply when he didn't even know her?

He didn't even know her name!

He wove in and out between the flow of bodies walking past him, occasionally struggling to keep up with her. At one point he had thought he lost the sight of her form on the sidewalk and had been stricken with panic, only to realize she had paused at a window while the rest of the sidewalk's population continued on. He stopped nonchalantly and pretend to look in a window as well, making sure to watch her out of the corner of his eye. When she began again he waited several seconds before continuing after her.

Turn after turn he followed her down the streets until he saw her stop at one singular door, only to let herself inside. After a few minutes he continued down the sidewalk, stopping to look at the name.

A dress shop. _She must work there_, he thought. She couldn't be making too much working in that shop. Probably barely enough to live on. She had looked as though she was wearing a rather poor frock, if not the same one he'd first seen her in. If she wasn't even making enough to dress herself in a comfortable frock, she couldn't be living in the best conditions either.

He wandered a ways away from the shop, not wanting to alert the woman inside of his presence. She'd surely think him so maniacal man that was after her, wanting to claim her for his own. Truthfully, that was essentially what he was. Now that he had located her, he would stop at nothing until he had her for his own. He began pacing on the sidewalk, deep in thought.

Ultimately, he decided that she needed a way out of that dead-end job and into something that would pay her more, and if it didn't do that, it had other benefits to ensure that she wouldn't be struggling. Now that he knew where she worked, he would know where to look for her. If he continued to watch her day in and day out emerging from that shop in an old, tarnished frock, he felt as though his heartstrings may pop.

Typically, Damien was not an empathetic creature. He wasn't one to sympathize with others, except when the other being happened to be the object of his heart's delight. There was no doubt that this woman had ensnared him with her beauty, with that subtle charm that he already felt he knew she held. There wasn't anything he wouldn't do to make sure that she was provided for, to make sure that she wouldn't be subject to a life of poverty that she looked as though she was heading for. Perhaps then she would love him - though he needed to make her willing to give him the time of day first.

If he could just find a way to speak to her...

Almost as if it were a gift from the heavens dropped right in front of him, he heard the jingling of a bell and looked in the direction of the shop just in time to see her leave with several boxes in her arms, seemingly reading over a list on a piece of note paper.

That was when the idea struck him.

He waited until she was around the corner to go into the shop in case she turned back for anything. It would do no good to be caught in the act, she would surely become hysterical, assuming she even remembered who he was and that he had stopped her so many weeks before.

The bell seemed to sing with joy as he walked under it, approaching the counter boldly through the sea of mannequins adorned in various garments as he was greeted by the woman who appeared from the small back room.

"Bonjour, monsieur! What can I help you with today?"

"...I'm looking to order a suit..."


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:**

My sincerest apologies for making all my wonderful readers wait so long for this chapter. After I got back from New York I had two days to prepare for tech week of The Sound of Music, which went extremely well! I promise there will be more frequent updates in the future. You have no reason to worry about me abandoning this story, as I'm far too excited about the plot to ever do that. I will stick by it to the end! Sometimes I just get busy and a bit delayed. I appreciate the concern, though, it lets me know that people enjoy reading the fic!

On this note of frequent updates, however, as I am within a month of graduating, these frequent updates might be somewhat delayed... I have tons of things to do to prepare for graduation, and because of that I may not have all the time in the world to sit down and write a chapter out every few days. I apologize ahead of time for this. I will try to plan multiple chapters at a time however so that I can once again sit down with a large outline of the chapter in front of me so it doesn't take as long to write.

Let's see, before I write an entirely new novel called 'Author's Note'... I don't think there's anything else that I'm missing except for saying THANK YOU to all of the faithful readers who follow this story! You are what make me want to write more and I value each and every opinion! Enjoy Chapter 8!

* * *

><p>"Sibylla, hurry and finish boxing those orders, for I've a delivery for you to make."<p>

There were times when Christine disliked hearing Madame Deniel bark orders at her from the front of the shop. There were times where she was compelled to turn around and tell her that if she knew who she _really _was... but no, Madame Deniel had no idea that she was a Vicomtesse, and besides that Christine had no place being rude to her when she had been so kind. If it hadn't been for Madame Deniel she wouldn't have survived more than a few days on the streets of Paris. Without money she wouldn't have been able to buy any food, obviously. She would have had to resort to becoming a common thief, and honestly, when she thought about that she realize there was really no way she would have learned the skill quickly enough to not be caught. Sure, once or twice when she was desperate could be accomplished, but to survive off of it? No, that would be impossible. Stealing would have easily lead to discovery, and the last way she wanted people to find out about her being alive was by hearing that she'd been caught with her hands full of stolen goods, thought to be a dirty little thief when in reality she was the missing Vicomtesse de Chagny.

It was actually amazing to think that she had survived this long on her own. Granted, now she had the help of Madame Giry and Meg, but until she had run into them she had done everything on her own. Raoul would have been proud. That, or he would have been horrified. Probably a combination of both, actually. He'd be proud that she was strong enough to take care of herself, but horrified at the fact that she even had to.

Granted, if it hadn't been for his death... No, she thought that way too much. It wasn't like Raoul had intended to die and leave her nearly destitute. Truthfully, she wasn't even destitute, or at least she didn't have to be. She had essentially brought that part of it on herself by running off.

Christine finished boxing the orders, stacking them and leaving their designated tags on them. She stepped out to the main room, standing behind the counter with Madame Deniel.

"Where is the delivery, Madame?" She asked quietly. "I can take it over my break for lunch."

Madame Deniel shook her head. "No, you'll have to set out now. Monsieur Durant lives outside of the city, it will take you the morning to get there and back, much longer than what you're given for lunch." She turned and began to shuffle through the boxes for the order. "He often has the young man that works for him pick up his orders, but he's running another errand today and since he needs this today, it's just as convenient to have you take it out there."

Christine nodded and took the boxes. She grabbed her cloak and wrapped it around herself in the customary way that she always found herself doing now. It wouldn't matter what the temperature was outside, she'd still wear the cloak. Granted, when the time finally came where wearing the cloak would draw more attention than it dissuaded, she would have to think of a new plan.

She waltzed out of the store, grinning somewhat at the sound of the bell, not even thinking for a moment that it could be the last time she would ever hear it.

* * *

><p>It wouldn't be long before she got here. The woman had said she would be delivering the box in the morning, hadn't she? It was already half past ten, surely the shopkeeper would have sent her out when the store had opened... It was almost absurd how impatient he was becoming. He was so desperate to speak with the young woman that he was finding it impossible to have to wait for her presence.<p>

To avoid any trouble he had told Monsieur Durant that he had ordered him several new suits, and the most the man insisted was that he be able to look over them to make sure they were satisfactory. It was a simple enough request, so Damien had humbly obliged. It wasn't like having this girl walk in to show the man the suits and see if there was anything he needed repaired was going to throw his plan to the dogs.

He stood near the window, peering out from behind one of the curtains and attempting to convince himself to wait for her. Several times he thought he saw the form of a woman walking down the dirt road, but he had been wrong. Or, if he had seen someone, they continued on by to prove that they weren't the woman he was waiting for. He sighed. She would arrive soon.

"Damien?" He heard Monsieur Durant call from the parlour. He reluctantly released the curtain, feeling almost like he was letting go of the hope of seeing her walking down the path to him, and turned to go.

Soon would never be soon enough.

* * *

><p>She sighed contentedly, taking in a gush of fresh, country air. After she'd found her way out of the city, she remembered how much she truly adored the country. It was quiet, rejuvenating, and so immensely calm. At first she'd been hesitant about going so far out of the city, but once she found herself walking along the French countryside with dirt beneath her feet instead of stones she was incredibly grateful that Madame had sent her out. If she ever saved up enough money from this job, she would find a small cottage in the country to live in. Being in the city for so long had made her miss it to some extent.<p>

While she was enjoying everything around her now, enjoying the way that the wind danced through her curls and infected her with its joy, Christine had previously been somewhat fearful that returning to the countryside would leave her feeling more overwhelmed than relaxed, considering how she potentially could have had to pass the vast expanse of land that once held the de Chagny manor. Thankfully she had been going in the other direction.

What could it look like now? Was it just... empty? Was there absolutely nothing left? She didn't want to think about it. So many memories had been made in the short time she had spent in that home, and to think that all of them had basically been burnt to the ground with the foundation of the home was heartbreaking.

But out of sight, out of mind, right? She wasn't walking past their former property, she was in another area of the country outside the city and was thoroughly enjoying herself. Not everything had to remind her of Raoul, and even if something did, she didn't have to be negative. She needed to begin learning to find the ability to reminisce without sending her spirits into the dirt.

In the distance she could see the shape of a house, and thinking that it might be the one that she was delivering to, she pulled out the address that Madame Deniel had given her. She read over it once, memorizing it as she came upon the house.

Well, this was it. She would be dropping it off and then she would be on her way, her morning in the countryside over and done just as quickly as it had begun. She walked up the pathway to the door, knocking politely and waiting. She could hear the faint sound of footsteps coming towards the door, looking down at the toes of her boots as it opened.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle." She recognized that voice for some reason. Her eyes moved up, slowly coming to rest on his face. Her heart was beating a little faster. "You are Sibylla, yes? Come to deliver Monsieur Durant's suits, I assume?"

It was the man that she'd seen on the streets so many months before. She swallowed with some difficulty and nodded. He didn't seem to recognize her, except for the fact that he might remember her from that encounter the same way she remembered him. He seemed to be looking at her face like he had seen it somewhere, or like he knew her.

"Come in," he said, moving away to allow her to step inside. Her eyes moved all about the room, taking in the elegant simplicity of it all. This Monsieur Durant had money, the house said it for him. There were elements of the style that were strangely familiar, almost comforting, but she couldn't place where she had seen it before. She was almost too engrossed in taking in all the details of this man's home to hear the young man speak again, catching what he said just in time.

"My name is Damien. I'll let Monsieur Durant know you are here in a moment." He eyed her carefully, deciding to bring up his idea before he would either be too afraid of her rejecting it or before she simply dropped off her boxes and left. "How do you like your work at the shop?"

Christine hesitated before speaking quietly. "It's alright, I suppose. Some days I wish I did other things." He cocked his head at this, almost as if to say 'oh?' and gently press her to explain further. "The wages are good, but not exactly always enough to live by."

"Is there anything else you could try?" She shook her head, trying to avoid having to explain the reason, or having to make up a reason to satisfy his curiosity. He feigned a smirk as if he was trying to think of something, when in reality he knew all along what he was about to suggest. He was trying to work into it slowly, but unfortunately he was much too eager. "Monsieur Durant has talked of hiring another servant. Perhaps you should look into it? I could broach the subject to him if you like."

Christine shook her head. "No, no, that is quite alright. I mean... I am getting by on what I have now." She paused momentarily, glancing away from him awkwardly before looking back. "What I mean to say is, I suppose I'm not exactly looking for anything else right now. I can live off the wages, even if it means cutting back on simple luxuries." She hesitated, pursing her lips slightly and avoiding his glance. It seemed like he was taking in her tattered frock, not fully believing that she would want to continue working in Madame Deniel's shop when she had to go on wearing old clothes to be able to afford food.

"How about I at least inquire?" Christine looked as though she was about to object when he stopped her. "There's no harm in that, is there? And then you can merely decide. He runs a fine home, and as you can see he has enough money to pay you ample wages, probably far more than what you earn in the dress shop." He was really trying to sell her on the idea now. "You could live comfortably. You wouldn't have to stay in this house, there's a small house in the back for his help. I'll tell him about you, and from there see what he says and you can decide." She remained silent, looking rather uncomfortable as she stared at him. "Fair enough?"

Christine remained still for a moment, then finally nodded. Perhaps this could be a good idea after all. She watched as Damien then began to walk away, telling her to remain there for a moment as he went to the parlour door down the hall. He knocked, then opened the door and stepped inside. She could hear him announce her arrival, then he remained there several more minutes as he apparently discussed the idea of the man hiring on another servant.

The security would be nice, she had to admit that. And she would be secluded, hidden away from everyone in the city. It seemed much safer. More than that, she wouldn't have to stay in the Opera any longer. Sure, she would need to fetch her belongings somehow, but she doubted that there would be strange men constantly lurking about this estate like there were creeping through the Opera. The more she thought of it, the positive reasons to accept outweighed the reasons to reject the offer were it made.

Inside the room, Monsieur Durant sat at his desk, Damien standing several feet away speaking to him. "She's a fine young woman, sir, and she seems quiet enough, like she'll do the work and not complain." He nodded quietly, listening as Damien spoke. "As of now she's working in the dress shop for poor wages. It's a shame to see her resigned to such a fate, ruining herself in old clothes, possibly living in poverty."

He was hoping that he was getting through to him. What did Monsieur Durant care about people, let alone women, in poverty? He tended to be rather detached from empathy, and was rarely compassionate. He ran a hand over his hair, staring past Damien before finally looking back to him. "Send her in. I'll sign for the suits and then see what I think of her as far as offering her work." Damien nodded and stepped out, almost heaving a sigh of relief. Monsieur Durant turned around in his chair again, his back to the door. He could hear the faint sound of Damien's voice in the hall beckoning the young woman.

"Sibylla? Monsieur Durant will see you." Christine walked towards him, holding the two boxes tightly to her chest. She was beginning to feel somewhat nervous about all of this; she was rather unsettled at the prospect of having to fool another person about her identity in order to gain some sort of upper hand with fate in order to survive.

She hesitated slightly upon reaching the door, then turned and stepped into the room quietly. She saw the man, this aforementioned Monsieur Durant, sitting at the other end of the room, his back to her. Damien stepped into the room beside her.

"Monsieur Durant, this is Mademoiselle Sibylla Larsson." Christine's eyes had been glued to the floor until this moment. When she looked up, her jaw dropped and her body was virtually paralyzed with fear at the sight of the white mask and golden eyes peering out from behind it.

Erik.

She very nearly flung the boxes as she turned and sprinted out of the room, the suits spilling out onto the floor in the midst of a swarm of tissue paper. Erik sat stunned for a split second.

She was alive.

In an instant he was up and after her, moving faster than one would have guessed he could. Soon there was no one but Damien standing in the parlour, left completely shocked and utterly confused. He had thought they hadn't known each other - what reason would he have had to think that they would? Whatever it was, he'd been wrong.

Christine had almost made it to the door when her foot caught the hem of her dress, tripping her and sending her to the floor with a cry of fright. She was scrambling to stand when she felt the cold hand on her shoulder, whipping her around and yanking her back up to her knees.

"Thought you could fool everyone, did you? What, did you think that you'd never be found? That you'd never be caught?" His voice was calm, but deadly, threatening to cut her if she didn't give the answer he demanded. She was silent, her eyes wide with fright and tears threatening to spill over at any moment. "Hm? Did you?" His voice had grown louder and he shook her slightly. When she didn't respond, his anger tore from its leash. "Did you?" he roared, his other hand grasping her other shoulder.

Upon discovering that she would give him no answer greater than frightened weeping, he removed his hands, just short of throwing her to the floor. "You thought you had to hide? Why? Why, _Sibylla?_" he nearly sneered. Silence. He turned his head to glance slightly over his shoulder, his voice low and malicious. "Afraid that old ghosts of the past might come back to haunt you?"

He was almost sure that he saw her flinch.

Erik was growing frustrated with her lack of answers. Didn't he deserve an answer for going so long thinking she was dead? Didn't he deserve an answer for all the time that he'd gone without her while she was married to her precious Vicomte?

Didn't he deserve an answer after giving her freedom? Freedom that now brought her back to him?

"Speak, damn it!" He bellowed, voice rumbling and booming into the very corners of the room, whirling around to face her. She shrunk away, hiding herself with her arms. That was when he noticed the glint of gold on the hand that rested atop her curls. He strode forward and seized her wrist, pulling her up to him once more as he bent closer to her level.

"What have we here?" His eyes traveled over her hand, moving it within his own, holding it as if he might press it to his lips any moment, his thumb resting on top of the gold band. "The widowed Vicomtesse wears another man's ring?" Christine sat horrified, her face turned away from him. He wouldn't win, she couldn't let him. But he was doing so well - it felt as though she was facing a challenge that was literally impossible to overcome. "Why does she wear Erik's ring when she shrivels away from him in terror?" Victory was tightly clutched within his grasp, never to be released.

His rage had easily surpassed any pity he may have felt for her at the moment. She could have been dirty and bruised and beaten and he still would have felt the same fury that currently coursed through his veins. But was he really so angry at her? He told himself he was. Perhaps he was angry that he had been weak enough, stupid enough, to be fooled into thinking that she was actually dead when all along she'd been working in a dress shop. Perhaps he was furious because she'd fooled him into grieving for her, she'd fooled him into _feeling_again. And that was something that was unforgivable.

"Why, Christine?"

At this, Damien's ears perked. He'd been standing by the doorway to the parlour completely stunned, unable to interject. Her name... She wasn't Sibylla Larsson. Christine. There was one Christine he had heard about lately, and only one Christine could have caused this much rage to be unleashed. Christine de Chagny, the dead Vicomtesse. Although now he knew she wasn't so dead, and was actually very much alive.

Christine's heart felt like a terrified bird within her chest, beating against the bars of its cage to be freed. His grip was cold on her wrist, a vivid reminder that he was demanding an answer from her. But she couldn't bring herself to speak. She opened her eyes and looked back to his face, her gaze meeting his golden, icy glare. All too easily she was reminded of the face that held that glare, knowing it was only inches away under the flawless white mask.

She wanted to get away, she needed to flee. She wasn't safe here. More importantly she felt that her secret wasn't safe here. He knew, and he was the one person that she'd wanted to avoid at all costs. She couldn't help but feel that she knew that he would respond this way, but she'd hoped for something else. Then again, in all the times that she had imagined in her mind what would happen should they meet again he had never responded joyfully. Once he'd been hurt, another time stunned into silence, and all too often he'd be furious.

What could she make of his offer now? Did it still stand?

Disgusted, Erik dropped her hand, almost flinging it away rather than simply letting go, and turned. He seemed to read the thought on her mind. "Should you wish to, you may stay. You may work." He stood, running a hand over his hair once more and attempting to steady his breathing and ease the tension in his tall frame. "But expect no special treatment. You will live like a servant, you will work like a servant, and you will be expected to behave like a servant."

He took a few steps away from her, walking towards the staircase before turning around. "It is up to you. Your decision will make no difference to me, for I've learned to become indifferent to the choices you make." He paused momentarily. "Should you walk out that door, I can replace you just as easily as if you were never here at all." And with that, he turned and began up the stairs, leaving the shaken, trembling woman sitting on the floor in the emotional wreckage he'd created.

Damien stepped forward, offering a hand to her as she sat with her arms wrapped about herself, tears streaming down her now flushed cheeks. "I will show you to the door, mademoiselle," he stated, but Christine shook her head, listening as Erik's footsteps drifted down the upper hall and into a room, the door slamming behind him.

He'd gone too far. It was a battle now. A challenge. A war of wills.

"No." Her jaw clenched. "I will stay."


	9. Chapter 9

_Clip, clip, clip._ Pause, turn. _Clip, clip, clip. _Pause, turn.

He wasn't aware of how long he'd been pacing back and forth in front of the fire. Hours could have passed, and they did pass, but he remained shut in the room, his mind caught in a whirl. The night outside was black, the room illuminated by the orange glow of the fire as his shadow flickered back and forth across the wall, ducking in and out of every nook and cranny like the looming, transient shadow of the Opera Ghost that once was.

He attempted to think through all that had occurred. Months ago he had learned of Christine's death in the fire, and only hours ago he found that in the time that he'd spent mourning her death she'd actually been living and breathing. She'd been eating, sleeping, even working. She'd been hiding from the world, hiding from him.

It was difficult to explain how he'd felt in that moment - the moment when he turned around to see her familiar dark eyes staring back at him, to see her long curls and pale cheeks flushed pink from the long walk into the countryside. His his heart had leapt, and it felt as if it had almost stopped. His muscles had seized, he'd lost whatever voice he might have used to try to speak to her. There was some part of him that had felt joy, whatever corrupt kind of joy it might have been, and more than joy, a strange sense of relief. To an extent, upon hearing of her death, he had felt a sense of shame, he'd almost felt that it had been his fault. No matter how much he tried to blame the Vicomte for putting her in harm's way, he would always find it coming back to himself. He had let her go, he'd let her leave him and had sent her out into the world. If he had kept her with him, she wouldn't have fallen victim to the fire, she would have been perfectly safe in a home below the Opera, or perhaps in this home, away from the world that could take her out of it just as easily as she'd been birthed into it.

But then she was here. She hadn't perished in the fire, her death hadn't been his fault in the roundabout way that he'd felt it had been. He'd almost wanted to reach to her, to touch her and see if she was real or if she was some illusion meant to taunt him, but then she was gone just as quickly as she had appeared, having flung her boxes, flying away on long nimble legs.

That was when reality hit him again, when he'd felt the sharp cut of the rejection that had once again been thrown at him. She hadn't wanted to see him, why would she have wanted to see him? He had been a source of terror in her life, he had kept her from what she loved. He had tried to consume her in an attempt to make her feel for him what he had felt for her, and ultimately it had been his undoing.

But hadn't he shown her kindness as well? Hadn't he been the one responsible for her debut, for all of the chances she was given to perform, for her voice? She had repaid that debt already, but after that night in the Opera...

All the time away must have changed her mind about him again. Who knew what kind of hatred her husband might have spewed about him on a daily basis, and after so long it must have become easy for her to believe herself. He'd thought she'd had a stronger will than that, in fact he knew she did - she'd proven it with her survival tactic of masquerading around Paris undercover whilst the population thought her dead - something that was no easy feat. After the events that transpired in the Opera, he'd known her to be capable of deception to some extent. But to this level? Something within her had grown in order for her to be able to pull that off, she'd matured in some way. She wasn't the naive girl that he'd known then, the girl who wouldn't have lasted a day by herself on the streets of Paris, who wouldn't even go out unaccompanied when she did leave the Opera.

Perhaps that was why he had grown so angry the moment she ran. He had thought that the night in the Opera had changed something between them, that there was a new level of mutual respect between them, if not something else. And then, in that moment when they could have had at least a civilized reunion, she'd proven fickle. It was like he'd believed a lie up until now, thinking that while she sat with the Vicomte and dined on the latest recipes, drinking fine wine and having someone to attend to her when she wished, that she would occasionally stop and think of him. Perhaps she would be sitting at her window staring out in the direction of the city, wondering where he was and what he was doing, or walking through a rose garden and remembering all of the roses he'd given her for her fine performances as the wind played with her curls, whipping them back and forth.

If it was a day where he felt especially confident in his interpretation of the night's events at the Opera, he'd thought that perhaps sometimes as she looked at her husband, somewhere within her, somewhere tucked away where he couldn't find it and crush it, she was imagining that he was someone else, that he was not Raoul, but himself, Erik. And more than that, more than pretending her husband was the dark man of her past, she was wishing that she had actually stayed with him.

But as he knew now, all of those thoughts were rolled up in what had proven to be a complete fallacy.

It was ultimately her running in what he could only assume was repulsion that had provoked his anger, that had made him realize that what he'd both mused and tortured himself over for so long had all been this strange, sick fancy that had lead him to believe that she saw him in a way that was different from how all the others did. Once his rage was provoked he could do little to harness it until it took its course and destroyed everything in its path.

Would she really rather have continued living on the streets of Paris than stand in a room with him? The thought made his blood begin to simmer even now. What was worse than that was he hardly regretted the course of action he'd taken. He'd unleashed anger on her multiple times in the past, but there was something about this that was almost more personal than any other time he'd become angry with her. There had been the time with his mask, and until now he had felt that it had been one of the worse times. There had also been the night in the Opera when he'd almost killed the man who had become her husband and who was now six feet under. That had easily been the worst time.

But what of this? This had to have been one of the few times, if not the first time entirely, that he'd been furious with her because he was furious with himself, because he was furious because of a mistake he made, because he was furious at the fact that she had once again made him feel small and incompetent for everything he'd thought he understood. And then it sprung from there - unimportant, undeserving, worthless, irrelevant, selfish.

A monster.

She'd turned him into a monster again.

He hadn't been angry at himself so much when she'd pulled off his mask as he was at her for the fact that she'd created even more of a monster out of him. It had become more than his actions, it had gained physical embodiment - representation, reinforcement.

The same went for the night that he'd let her go; through her actions he'd become a monster again, her deception did awful things, it seemed. And this afternoon he'd witnessed it all over again, he'd observed the transformation almost as if he wasn't himself and he was someone else standing several feet away watching the entire scene as his ethereal voice unleashed cruelties that at one point he would have never thought of uttering to her. It had started with that look of horror on her face, the one that he had seen more times than he would have liked to admit.

But then something within him had persuaded him to give her the offer of staying. Perhaps it was because he'd felt as though he knew that she wouldn't say yes after what he'd flung at her minutes before. Or maybe somewhere, on some deep, dark subconscious level, he wanted her to stay.

He couldn't say that he felt that way now. He had meant every word of what he'd said to her, his spirit was still wounded from her tricks of the past months, and that had lead him to understand that his life had been simpler without her in it, it had made sense, and it lacked pain - the pain that had caused him to so easily smite her with his temper and prove to her that there was more than a touch of the old Erik left in him. The monster was still there.

Yet she'd chosen to stay. There was still a part of him that couldn't make sense of it that desperately needed to. They had resumed their old roles and he was once again the monster, but she was staying anyway.

_Clip, clip, clip. _Pause.

She was staying.

* * *

><p>What had possessed her to do it? Now, lying here in this bed in the dark she wasn't entirely sure that she had made the right decision, especially after the display that he'd put on when she'd tried to run. Hindsight she realized it was a stupid idea to run, that she should have attempted to stand there calmly, and if she couldn't do that to at least walk away. Then again if she hadn't tripped then perhaps she would have actually made it away, or at least far enough that she could have put distance between them before she started walking back into town again and ensure that he would never find her.<p>

Unfortunately that wasn't the case and now she was here. Acting on impulse was a bad habit for her, especially when caught in the heat of a moment. She'd been upset and it had felt as though his words had been a blow to her ego. She couldn't walk away defeated like that when he'd made her feel defeated so many times before in the past. He'd pushed her too far this time, obviously not understanding that she wasn't the naive little ingenue that she'd been before when he had so easily taken advantage of her innocence. She needed to prove him wrong.

But couldn't she do that in some other way? Why had she stayed? Even now, lying in her new room in the guest house - literally an entire house away from him - she still felt the unsettling feeling of his presence. It had been the same that she'd felt in the Opera, though she knew that he hadn't been there. That had merely been the old haunted feeling of the building toying with her all-too-raw and tender emotions. It had been too soon. Even now she felt it was too soon, she wasn't ready for this kind of reunion with him, not when he'd thrown her life around so much before.

Perhaps that was what had caused her to stay, however. While she felt a great discomfort knowing that he was closer than she would have liked, it was better knowing where he was than lying on that musty, dank mattress at night and feeling his presence without knowing if there were eyes behind the mirror or not.

More than that, there had to have been a part of her that was eager to jump on the proposition of having something secure. She knew there wouldn't be any strange men sifting through Erik's property like they did the Opera, she knew that for as long as she needed this she would have it now that she'd accepted. Surely he wouldn't throw her out, even with what he'd said... He couldn't do that. There was no way. Madame Deniel had that option, but Erik? Not after everything they'd been through, and especially since he had just found out that she was actually alive she doubted that he would send her back to the world where she was so vulnerable and susceptible to actually perishing.

Would she ever return to that small point of her life? Would she see Madame and Meg again, would she box dresses for Madame Deniel? At that thought, she realized that if she had essentially just gained new employment she would have to terminate her deal with the old employer, and that by staying here she wouldn't necessarily need the Girys' assistance any longer. She sat up, deciding to take care of both things as she was thinking of them. She lit a candle and sat down to the small desk in the corner of the room, pulling out two pieces of paper and the bottle of ink, scribbling two fast notes. She would ask Damien to drop them at their respected destinations when he went into the city the next day.

He had proven himself kind, though she was still unsure of him, but she still liked him all the same. He was sure to be a friend where Erik had made it clear he wouldn't be. At least she wouldn't be alone this time.

Damien had given her this room to stay in, while he was in the other bedroom on the other side of the small house. It was comfortable, and it smelled much better than her room in the Opera. And as far as she knew there weren't any spiders lurking in the corners and crevices of the room like there were in the Opera either. Even if there were, she wouldn't let Erik hear her if she saw one, she would have Damien take care of it and he'd never have to know. Even after all this time she wasn't able to overcome that fear. She'd always had to have Raoul wad them up in a kerchief and dispose of them somewhere that she would never see them again.

She quietly moved to a window, pulling back the curtain and looking out up at the stars, sighing slightly. It was comforting to try and imagine that somewhere Raoul was looking at those stars even if she knew he wasn't. Perhaps it was just that he was looking down on them while she looked up, and more than peering at the sky they were actually gazing at each other - there just happened to be stars in between. What would he think of this? Surely he wouldn't approve, he wouldn't even think that she was safe. Then she would tell him to stop being irrational, but he'd continue right on...

Christine wanted him with her now more than ever. It was now, staring up at the looming black sky and its vast expanse that she realized how frightened she was at the idea of what she'd just gotten herself into. It was as if that sky was _telling_her what she had gotten herself into, that she had fallen head first into a trap of darkness once again, void of warmth and light. Vague, unclear, always groping her way through it, attempting to make her eyes see. Endless.

She turned away and moved back to the bed, unable to confront these thoughts any longer. She crawled back in and pulled the blankets up to her chin, curling up and hugging the material to her body. She closed her eyes, feeling that sleep was avoiding her, taunting her as it danced around her. Still, the most that she could make herself do was lie there and attempt to will herself into unconsciousness.

Tomorrow was a new day, and she would have to greet it one way or another.


	10. Chapter 10

He'd woken early the next morning, the sun sneaking in through the cracks in the curtains to penetrate the blissful shadows of the room that made it so easy to roll over and sleep for another few minutes. He sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes with the back of this palm and then ran his fingers through his hair. At first his mind felt like it did any other morning, but then he remembered it was not just any other morning. She was here.

Damien threw back the blankets and swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing and moving to his chest of drawers and where he pulled out a pair of trousers, and then a shirt and jacket. After dressing he left the room, peering towards the other door and wondering if she was still sleeping. He approached it carefully, knocking hesitantly then listening in an attempt to discern whether or not she was inside. With no response he could only assume that she was still asleep. He placed his hand on the knob and slowly turned, peeking in to see that her bed was neatly made and that there was no one in the room. For a moment he was somewhat puzzled, but closed the door and walked into the other small room that served as the kitchen. It looked as though nothing had been touched except perhaps a piece of fruit having been taken from the basket of apples and oranges. He grabbed an orange and sat down at the little table, beginning to peel away the outer rind and tear apart the succulent flesh inside.

He could only assume that she'd gone into the other house to begin her work early. He'd explained to her what her work would be the previous evening. Usually just cleaning, perhaps she'd run the occasional errand if he was busy or already in town doing something else. She would take care of various things around the house, essentially anything that Monsieur Durant asked her to do on top of the duties that she was already assigned.

But why had she gone in so early when she had such a long day ahead of her to get everything done? There was no way she was cooking him a meal or anything of the sort, for if she knew the man as well as it had appeared that she had then surely she would know that he rarely took meals. If he did, Damien never saw him do it. He simply resigned to the fact that he would have to ask her later, which wasn't a bad idea at all as it would give him a reason to strike up a conversation. He could see their relationship slowly growing stronger each day at this rate, especially if the she and Monsieur Durant hated each other so much. She would surely want some sort of friend here. All he had to do was foster that friendship and tend to it. Water it, weed it, let it grow. She would be his in no time if Monsieur Durant continued treating her in the same manner that he'd greeted her with.

With that thought, he tore off another piece of the orange and placed it in his mouth, leaning back in the chair and grinning slightly to himself, gloating in how simple, yet brilliant, it all seemed in his mind.

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, contrary to Damien's previous assumption, Christine stood in the kitchen cooking a small breakfast. Well, more than cooking she was simply preparing it. It wasn't anything special by any means, just some fruit on a plate and a piece of bread, some cheese... She wasn't exactly a phenomenal cook, but she could perhaps learn quickly if given the opportunity. Her father had always cooked when they were traveling and in the Opera she never had to cook her own meals. Even when she'd lived on the streets in the past two months she had never taken food that needed to be cooked - she obviously had nothing to cook it with. It was no surprise that her skills were lacking considering her lack of necessity for it.<p>

Erik's kitchen was rather lovely for a man who rarely used it and seemed to have no need for it. Perhaps it would give her incentive to learn. It was a large room with a large rectangular table in the center. The stove was built into the wall like a sort of fireplace, coming out a bit from rest of the walls with small sections of wooden counters with cabinets and drawers underneath, and shelves above on the walls to hold china and pans. There was a small room just off to the side where the large sink could be found with more shelves for the plates to dry, and the icebox for all of the perishable food. Even without any talent in the kitchen she still found it to be a highly admirable room, and a place where she could find it easy to take interest and improve whatever ability she did or didn't have.

But what did it really matter? If he was still the same man that she knew from two years prior, then he still rarely ate - if ever. But that would change now that he'd brought her here. If she could make him eat, it would be like winning a small battle with him. All she needed were a few small obstacles to get her foot in the door with him, and then she'd be proving to him that she still held some sort of power in their mangled relationship. And more than power, it would be him giving in to her. What would stop her from expanding that realm of power, then? He'd wake up one day and realize how subtly she had done it, amazed that the girl who he'd believed to be so naive could secretly manipulate him in such a way... If she pulled it off right. If she could do it without him realizing her intentions, she would win, and she would prove to him that she was not just a pawn he could throw around and use to do his bidding, insulting her here and there and telling her that she meant nothing to him, that she was replaceable. He'd started yet another war between the two of them, the only difference being that this time she didn't have Raoul on her side. It was no longer two against one, but each man for himself.

She took the small plate and walked to the drawing room where she'd seen him sitting earlier, knocking twice and hearing him mumble something as she walked in. He was sitting at the desk on the opposite side of the room working on something, she didn't bother to pay attention to what it was as she walked in and set the plate next to him on the table, letting it clank slightly on the wood before turning abruptly and walking away. His voice stopped her.

"Mademoiselle, I didn't request this." It was silky, smooth, rich, captivating - just like she'd always remembered it, and for a moment she almost turned around and complied to taking the plate away again. His back was still to her, he hadn't turned away from the desk. In the small silence that followed she regained her sense of self and didn't turn around to face him. This struck a new thought in her, the image of the two of them with their backs to each other and refusing to respectfully converse with each other face to face. How ridiculous they probably looked, two stubborn creatures battling it out in his drawing room over a plate of fruit and cheese.

"I thought you might like it anyway." She said somewhat sweetly as she took a few steps towards the door again before stopping in the doorway to speak once more. "God knows it wouldn't hurt you to eat it."

He turned sharply to look over his shoulder only to see her form absent in the doorway, gone as quickly as she'd appeared. He contemplated standing to go after her and insult her twice over for being so bold, but something stopped him. Two years ago he would have perhaps roared at her with anger over a remark like that, but now instead he sat dumbfounded that she would even have the nerve to say such a thing.

He stared at the plate of food, very nearly glaring at it. He'd been right in assuming that something within her had changed. She was no longer a little girl, a young woman. Perhaps she didn't hold the wisdom of the world, but she had definitely become something else, and something else with a sharper tongue at that. He'd have to work on her, or at least with her.

But why had she brought him food? Was she trying to appeal to him? And she'd spoken sweetly... Or, well, at least relatively sweetly. As sweetly as one could while dishing out such a comment. Perhaps she was trying to show him that she was willing to be kind if he was. Unfortunately for her, she could be as sweet as she wanted, he was determined that it would have no effect on him. He wouldn't let himself stare longingly after her form as she left the room, he wouldn't imagine her curls wrapped around his fingers at he ran them through her long locks, he wouldn't think of how he ached to hold her in his arms and have her for himself now that there was no one to stop him.

But was he not imagining the very thing by merely telling himself he wouldn't think of it? He shook his head and placed his pen on the desk a bit too forcefully. This would be more difficult than he thought. It was easy to say he wouldn't do these things when she wasn't in the room, but when she was he could feel the way her presence changed something about him, how the soft scent of lilacs and country air seemed to linger in the room even after she left and infected his mind, swirling about and disorienting his sense. He couldn't let her envelope him, she'd hurt him, she'd wronged him in feigning her death. He deserved to win this time. He glanced at the plate again.

Two could play at this game.

After this long, final gaze at the plate of food that he couldn't bring himself to even feel the urge to eat, he looked away and vowed to himself that he would not look at it again. She would have to come into the room and retrieve it and eat it herself if she didn't want the food to go to waste. With that thought in mind he began writing again, and after he finished he stacked his papers neatly, filed them away, and left the room.

* * *

><p>"Would I be correct in guessing that you tried to feed him?"<p>

She turned away from the sink where she was scrubbing some of the dishes that had been used the day before, her eyes finding Damien's face as he stood in the doorway. He must have seen the plate of food sitting on the counter next to her, a few of the grapes missing and several bites taken from the pieces of cheese.

She'd found the food later, completely untouched as she might have guessed it would be. She had picked it up quietly and taken it back to the kitchen, slowly picking off the food as she went about her tasks for the morning, cleaning and discovering where everything was in the process.

"I suppose you could say that." She stacked the now clean plate with the others that she would soon be putting away. "Why do you ask? Is there some sort of harm in doing so?"

"Oh, no, not that I know of. But one would imagine that you would have expected him to leave it," he paused and took a few steps towards her, crossing his arms over his chest, "considering how well you two seem to know each other." Christine's cheeks flushed red and she looked away, scrubbing the tea cup in her hands and pursing her lips, refusing to respond to him. "Oh, come now, I haven't said anything that you don't already know. There's no need to deny it when you're no longer hiding any secrets."

Christine paused and looked over at him. If only he knew, she found herself thinking in amazement. If only he truly understood the extent to which that statement was more false than anything else. She cleared her throat slightly before recollecting herself and going back to washing the tea cup.

"I suppose you're right." She would go along with him for now. "I know his habits, the good and the bad. I figured there was no harm in trying," she said, placing the tea cup on the stack of dishes and drying off her hands before turning to put them away.

"Monsieur Durant's a peculiar man," he began. Christine almost snickered as she put the plates away, then the tea cups. When she finished she faced him, crossing her arms lightly over her chest and moving to lean against counter by the stove. Damien sat back on the large table covered with plates and bowls of food in the center of the room. "Even after working for him for a year or so now there are still many things I don't understand about him."

Christine's eyebrows arched. There was a part of her that want to reassure him that this was not uncommon and a part of her that was in disbelief that he said such things as if he was trying to inform her about something that she apparently didn't know. She chose to appease him anyway. Perhaps she'd gain some information that could be useful to her. "Oh, like what?"

"Well, for starters he wears that mask. I can only imagine there's something under it that's more bizarre than the idea of a man wearing a mask all the time." He looked at her for a moment as if to ask if she knew what was under it and she immediately shook her head rather hastily. She would never tell him that - while she and Erik hadn't resumed their relationship on good terms she couldn't betray him to such a degree. "And his moods are one thing entirely. It would probably take me an entire day to tell you about that..." He didn't need to tell her. "As you know he rarely eats - if he does I haven't seen it." He paused for a moment, plucking an apple out of the bowl nearby and tossing it up in the air and catching it again. "He rarely goes into town, but on the days that he does I seize my opportunity and go up to those rooms upstairs to try and learn new things about him."

Christine was almost alarmed at this statement. She was all too familiar with how Erik reacted to people snooping through his possessions, or under the one on his face, for that matter. Her gaze shifted to the floor. "When you knew him was he a musician? He has a room up there full of instruments. A piano, an organ, and there are shelves full of other things... I think I could see that he had at least a violin, a cello, and a flute." Christine nodded. She remembered all too vividly the times when he would serenade her with his music. "But... I just don't understand. He has all these instruments but he doesn't ever play any of them. He keeps them spotless, but he doesn't use them."

At this point she began to wonder if he was trying to extract information from her somehow. Perhaps he was thinking that by acting so innocently curious, so apparently concerned for his employer, that she'd instantly view him as a friend and trust him, she'd confide in him. Well, perhaps with some time he could be her friend. She wasn't going to be kissing up to Erik any time soon, and she would need someone to talk to.

"He was a wonderful musician, yes, easily the best that I've ever heard." She brushed a curl out of her face. "I don't know what made him stop, however." She wouldn't disclose her entire past to him, he had no place knowing the things that had happened between her and Erik, or what's more the emotions that had been shared between the two of them. "It's a shame that he doesn't play anymore, though. You wouldn't believe it if you heard it."

Her voice was almost melancholic as she said it. While she didn't miss Erik, she did miss his music. It had felt like some sort of empty void in her life for the past two years. She could sing all she wanted but she sounded nothing like how she had under his direction. And so often she found herself sitting in their parlour with the window open, a breeze whirling through the room as she stared at the piano and wished that it was playing his music. While he had obviously terrified her there had been times when he surely had wooed her with his music as well, and she'd easily given in. It almost made her glad that his music was absent here. She wouldn't have to worry about falling victim to the power it held over her.

She looked back up at Damien and met his gaze, sitting quietly for a moment as he stared back at her. He was a charming man, undoubtedly. Tall, well built, with an incredibly becoming face. He cracked a small, almost sympathetic grin in response to the look on her face, almost as if he was pitying her, and she suddenly felt uncomfortable. But she wasn't sure if it was because of the fact that he was sympathizing with her, or if it was because a handsome man was paying attention to her and perhaps trying to charm her when she wasn't wanting it. There were aspects of him that reminded her of Raoul, but that didn't make him more endearing to her. If anything it made her more unsettled because it reminded her that the man she had loved was gone. She looked away and cleared her throat, attempting to think of something to say or do when she heard the sound of the servant bell.

"I'll go," she blurted and began walking away quickly. "I mean... I need to get used to being beckoned anyway," she added as if trying to give reason to why she was so eager to leave the room. She stopped in the doorway abruptly and turned back. "I almost forgot. I've written two notes for a few people, could you deliver them when you go into the city today?" He nodded. "Thank you." With that she fluttered away, her skirts rustling as she vanished through the door, the sound of her footsteps on the stairs faintly drumming in his head.

He'd reached something in her by talking about Monsieur Durant's music. Perhaps that had been their connection - after all, Christine de Chagny, if he remembered correctly from the article that contained the obituaries of her and her husband Raoul, had once been an opera singer at the Opera Garnier. Perhaps that was how they had known each other, and that was how she'd known about his musical abilities. He might have played in the orchestra, or was a conductor or fellow performer? His mind was forming a million new questions that he desired the answers to.

He knew now that the only way to gain these answers that he desired would be by gaining her trust and convincing her to open up and tell him of her relationship with Monsieur Durant. There had been conflict, why would she have darted away upon seeing him again if it had been a pleasant relationship? He stood and moved out of the room, gazing up the staircase once more before walking out of the house into the afternoon heat towards the small house to fetch the notes she spoke of before heading into the city to take care of all Monsieur Durant's errands for the day.


	11. Chapter 11

She let her body sink into lukewarm water, releasing a gust of air from her lungs and closing her eyes. It had been a long day, much longer than she had expected it to be and she could feel the aching in her limbs all the way down to the bone. Spending days sewing hems and altering sleeves was nothing compared to scrubbing floors and dishes all day. She was actually surprised that she'd been so willing to sit in the bath after having to spend her day washing things; by the end of everything she'd felt as if she didn't want to see another drop of water for the rest of her life.

The worst part was perhaps that she wasn't even close to being done with anything, she still had the hall floor to clean the following morning and any other rooms that Erik would willingly let her into. Since the conversation with Damien she could only think about what was kept inside those forbidden rooms. Apparently it was as if part of his life was locked away up there - the part of his life, after she'd thought about it, that most closely corresponded with her. Upon first realizing it, she'd been mildly hurt that he'd shut away everything that had to do with her, that he'd apparently closed his memory of her inside those rooms and locked every door so that he may never have to face them again unless he chose to.

But why shouldn't he lock every thought of her away? Hadn't she done the same thing surrounding her life with him? After she had left with Raoul, any mention of Erik seemed forbidden. But now it seemed that the two of them had no choice but to face those memories if they were to be together under such circumstances.

She dunked her head under the water once and smoothed her hair upon resurfacing, wiping the water out of her eyes. She pulled the plug from the drain and stood, drying herself off and pulling on the nightshift that she had brought into the room with her, one from the Girys that she had kept in the small bag of possessions she'd toted with her everywhere in her time living on her own. She picked up the frock that she'd been wearing throughout the day and left the room, tip-toeing back into her bedroom and walking over to the dresser. She folded up the frock and pulled open one of the drawers, ready to place the dress inside when she hesitated.

It was already full of frocks. But hadn't it been empty this morning? She placed the folded dress in her hand on top of the dresser, then fingered through some of the gowns. She pulled one from the top and held it up. It was just her size, the perfect measurements and everything. She slung it over the open drawer and pulled open another, then another. She could only stand astonished, completely caught off guard by the sudden materialization of garments in what had been previously empty drawers.

Each drawer was filled: two with dresses, one with nightshifts, one with undergarments, another with petticoats and the last with stockings. For a moment all she could do was simply stand and stare, but then she felt something tugging at the corners of her mouth. A small smile, perhaps, had she not immediately stunted its growth and abruptly closed the drawers, putting away the two other gowns and then walking to her bed to brush through her still-damp curls, her eyes never leaving the dresser.

Obviously it was Erik who was behind it. Who else would it have been? Apparently after all this time he still knew her gown measurements. Then again, why was she so surprised? He always seemed to know everything about her - too often she underestimated him, and too often it came back to surprise her, or wreak havoc on her life.

Why had he done it? Besides the fact that it might become hard to live every day wearing the same frock, and Erik was never one to refrain from lavishing his wealth on someone that he cared about. This thought caught her off guard. It seemed so normal, yet still so strange. Someone he cared about... his buying her the clothes had to mean he cared for her to some extent, even if it was just caring that she had some sort of garment that didn't smell musty and rotten. It was as if something in him had subconsciously reached out to her.

She paused, her brush half way through her a strand of hair. Years ago she would have been frightened beyond belief, but this time she found herself appreciating the gesture, whether it was out of kindness or not. She had to assume it was merely because clothing was a necessity, not because he was feeling exceptionally generous and attempting to earn her affections like he had been the last time. Regardless of his intentions, she would have to remember to thank him the next day somehow.

It wasn't so much that she felt a new sense of loving graciousness towards him - she was far from that. But she felt like this was the start of something better between them, it was like he was taking back everything he'd said to her before to a point. Perhaps it was a sign that things could eventually be better between the two of them.

For a moment she stared down at the hairbrush in her hand, then glanced back up at the dresser, imagining all the clothing inside it, filling the drawers until they were almost overflowing. She placed her hairbrush on the small bedside table and laid down, blowing out her candle. As she pulled the blanket up over her body, she leaned her head back against the pillow and closed her eyes, the smallest hint of a smile on her face.

* * *

><p>When he came down the stairs in the morning, he could hear someone rustling about in the kitchen and only assumed that it was Christine preparing for the day, whether she was already cleaning something in the there or preparing to finish up the tasks that she hadn't finished the day before. Or, he snickered at the thought, perhaps she was preparing another plate of food for him to ignore for breakfast. He could picture it just the way it would happen: she'd come gliding in, place it next to him on the desk and insist that he eat it like she had the day before, explaining how all he was doing was ruining himself and that he was in fact human and not invincible, and humans needed food. He had heard the speech numerous times during their time at the Opera together.<p>

It was the one thing that he found to be not so terrible about not having her around. The moment she'd thrust the plate of food in front of him the day before he'd remembered how incessant she had been in reminding whenever they'd been together. Luckily, while she was here, she spent most of her time not attempting to force feed him and he could completely block out the fact that she was in the house at all, and he didn't have to confront the idea of being around her and all of the emotions that came with it.

The sound of drawers opening and closing pulled him from his thoughts and he grinned slightly as he realized she was probably rummaging for a napkin to bring to him with the food she was evidently going to be offering him once again. He chuckled slightly, almost with a twinge of bitterness, amused by the predictability of her actions. He turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs and walked towards the drawing room, opening the door and strolling in. He pulled a book from one of the shelves and began towards his desk, flipping it open and browsing the pages before looking up once more. He stopped half way, staring blankly, his mouth hanging open every so slightly.

There was already a plate virtually identical to the one she'd brought him yesterday sitting on the desk. It was like she'd put it there just to let it wait for him, like it was some sort of trap in disguise, beckoning him and trying to lure him to it. He heard her footsteps coming towards the door and turned slightly in that direction when he heard them stop in the doorway.

She was holding a bucket of what he assumed was soapy water with a rag draped over the rim, her curls tied back with a scrap of ribbon though there were a few strays that floated lazily around her face. She was wearing one of the new frocks that he'd purchased for her the day before and had Damien retrieve when he'd gone into town - a dull, lifeless gray one, and he was both pleased and troubled to notice how favorably it fit her. Perhaps a bit too favorably - that or he was pleased that his ability to remember her measurements was so... accurate and flattering. She had around her waist a small white apron which was already covered with a few stains and damp spots. The perfect display of a little housemaid.

She really was a picture, and he was almost furious that she could still look so becoming in such bland attire. Half his reasoning in buying her opaque and bland frocks was so that he could find something that wouldn't actually complement her, and he had apparently failed in doing so for she still looked just as lovely as he had remembered.

This thought in itself was enough to make him want to rip out his hair and send her away, or make her at least wear something baggy and ill-fitting. He couldn't stand the fact that simply looking at her could make his skin crawl with chills or make his pulse begin to race just that much faster. It made him feel weak and like he had lost his control over himself, something that he had always boasted so much pride in. It made him feel like she was winning this battle without even having to try.

His eyes drifted back up to her face from which her eyes seemed to stare at him expectantly. They stood in silence for a few minutes longer until she finally glanced at the plate of food on the desk at which point he also turned his head to look in that direction before returning his eyes to her face once more.

"Just in case you changed your mind since yesterday."

And with that she promptly floated away in her little flat shoes to another area of the house beyond the drawing room hallway to clean the floor, a satisfied smile on her face, leaving him almost bewildered but recovering with every second that passed. He could tell that she was gloating in her success, even though the success didn't pertain to the plate of food and more instead to his reaction to her little stunt along with the apparent effect that her presence had created.

He turned to stare at the food once more, pursing his lips yet again and moving all the way to his desk, sitting down and placing the book he held a few inches away for later reading after he finished his other tasks. He glanced at the plate of food - that food which was the embodiment of the sly, alluring little debutante that had offered it to him. He cleared his throat and grabbed a piece of parchment as he prepared to begin his business.

She may have won that battle, but she was far from winning the war.

* * *

><p>He could see the way that he always seemed to watch her when she drifted through the room, or how his eyes lingered after her form long after she left. He knew there was something that always stirred inside him when she was present, perhaps even when she wasn't, though he would never admit to it being so after the way he'd presented himself as disconnected and uncaring. He noticed these things - looked for them, even. He liked to think that it was merely him feeling uncomfortable and on edge because there was a woman present in the house at all times now, but he knew that it wasn't the case.<p>

There was a past between them, something that - no matter how hard he tried - Damien could not erase or at most attempt to insert himself into. It was dangerous, and if he didn't keep everything in check and make sure that she didn't develop any feelings - or didn't currently feel anything, for that matter - towards Monsieur Durant then winning her affections would be like beating a dead horse.

It was ultimately his mistake that was causing all of this trouble for him. He tried not to feel as though he had set up his own potential failure, but it was hard to believe when it had essentially turned out that way. Even if it hadn't been his intention and had happened without any of his knowledge, he had brought her here and in turn lead her right back to the only man left that had a connection to her, and a strong one at that. What Monsieur Durant's feelings were towards her he couldn't be entirely sure. One could never be too sure of anything with him. But all the same he could see the effect she had on him, and it was something awfully powerful whether Monsieur Durant wanted it to be that way or not.

He could feel the envy breeding within him when he observed the small acts of kindness she would perform for him, regardless of whether her unspoken intentions were saintly or purely manipulative. To say he was jealous would be nothing short of accurate. She was kind to him, but she was thoughtful towards Monsieur Durant. She would smile at him, but there was one lovely look that she saved only for Monsieur Durant. She would speak to him, but she would let her words freely play games and toy with Monsieur Durant. He knew that she would think of him if he was present, but when he was gone he could only assume that she thought of Monsieur Durant.

What was worse was seeing the evidence of the extent of Monsieur Durant's knowledge of her. The day before when he'd been sent into town to pick up the order from the dress shop he'd wondered just how it was that he knew her measurements well enough to make what had proven today to be such a perfectly fitting dress. He never let his mind venture too far, for there was only disappointment and disgust waiting.

For now he felt that there was nothing that he could do except continue his defensive role and keep attempting to win her over. He would surely have to think of new ways every day, for she seemed to be full of surprises and new ways to taunt the man's apparent lust for her, a thought which made him shudder. No man of Monsieur Durant's years and demeanor ought to taint a lovely figure so young and angelic - especially when there was a strapping young man like himself to compete with him. While he didn't know his exact age, he knew him to be no older than sixty but no younger than forty. Where on earth had she ever, if ever, seen any sort of appeal? And more than that he was obviously not as attractive as Damien himself, he could only assume that something terribly unappealing lay hidden underneath his mask. More than these more superficial qualities, Damien could easily vouch that he essentially had the personality of a wet feline - often thoroughly sour, cold, and about as lovable. Where was the charm? Why had she ever been drawn to a man so dark and moody, so utterly undesirable?

However, he didn't feel that Monsieur Durant's sentiments - whatever they may be - were requited just yet, and it gave him confidence to know that he still had an obvious chance when the odds had the potential to look so favorably upon him. He was the obvious choice. She may have been attached to Monsieur Durant but she would never love him the way that he envisioned she would soon love himself. He would have to try harder, regardless of what it meant, and he would have to attempt to focus her attention on him more often. He would watch for a few days, and if anything major changed he would subtly intervene and prevent it from happening again. Keeping distance between them could be the best defense mechanism he had.

He opened the door to the small house that he now shared with Christine and stepped inside. The thoughts that had been racing through his mind had occupied him while he finished the last of his work in the main house and walked back for the evening to perhaps have a small bite to eat and then retreat to his bed. Another day gone and observed, another day to prepare for and plan.

Upon closing the door he looked up to see her seated at the table eating an apple, a bit of bread, and some left over meat that had been cooked the day before and left in the icebox. He sat down with her and broke off some bread from the loaf, tearing off pieces and eating them slowly.

"You seem tired," she stated. "Your day felt equally long, I presume?" He nodded. "Did he make you go into the city?"

"Several times, yes. The walk never seems long until you have to make the trip multiple times." Christine took a small bite of the apple. "Sometimes I wonder why I don't look for other work, then I remember the benefits of staying here." He glanced at her, wishing that she would understand that it was her he spoke of now as being such a benefit. She didn't seem to, however, and took another small bite of her apple.

"What brought you to him anyway?" she asked, brushing a curl out of her face. "I mean, from knowing him I can vouch that he isn't always the easiest person to find, and it seems strange to me that he would put himself out in the open for anyone." He leaned back in his chair, sighing and staring at the wall behind her.

"I don't know, really... I worked in a small shop in the city and he approached me one day with the offer. It sounded a hundred times better than what I was doing at the time, I suppose." He placed another piece of bread in his mouth. "And I didn't know him or have any idea what the job would be like from the description of it. I didn't know he'd be such a strange man, or so moody and resentful all the time." He sighed somewhat ruefully, perhaps almost regretfully. "But he pays me well and lets me live here, what more could I ask for, really?"

She nodded in agreement. "He always has been somewhat... off-putting..." She stared off to some corner of the room. "But he is a brilliant man, the most ingenious and knowledgeable that I've ever met." She looked back to Damien, and he could see the light beginning to flicker in her eyes, though whether it was candlelight or excitement he couldn't tell. "Music is only one of his talents, you know. He has many, and I'm sure there are many more that I don't know of. He's unbelievably intelligent, he could tell you anything about whatever you ask him, anything at all, no matter what it is." Her eyes moved back to that distant place. "He always had answers for me."

It was silent for a moment. He could see the gears turning in her mind, churning out thoughts that were obviously about Monsieur Durant. He could feel the seed of irritation sprouting within him. He moved his hand to run his fingers through his hair, and the sudden movement broke her from whatever trance she seemed to be in. She sighed, placing the core of her apple on her plate before standing and moving to place it in the sink, tossing the scraps on her way there.

He was making progress, he knew - every time they spoke of Monsieur Durant he gained new insight that could be beneficial to him. He was learning, and he would store the information away for later. More importantly than gaining information he could feel himself gaining her confidence. She was feeling more at ease with speaking to him, perhaps he was proving himself to be someone that she could trust. He would have to continue to nurture this newborn connection if he wanted her to be more than just a conversation partner to him.

"Well, he certainly sounds like a different person than I know - you always seem to manage to make him sound wonderful."

She stopped on her way to her bedroom, looking down at her fingers as she absentmindedly picked at one of her fingernails, thinking of how he had bought all of the frocks for her, how he'd offered her work and essentially taken her in, how ever since she'd been here she'd slowly begun to feel more comfortable, more at ease. While she felt nothing akin to affection for Erik, she was perhaps beginning to feel a strange sense of gratefulness for his piecing her life back together in his absurd way, for being the missing puzzle piece that she'd needed to link the two unstable portions of her life and create a secure connectedness between them.

Her fingers paused before she looked up to speak. "Wonderful... no, perhaps not." He could see that her mind was still wandering. "But someone who is worth knowing truly."

As she walked away Damien stared after her, thinking over what she'd just said. It didn't seem to be confessional, by any means - she wasn't expressing a deep-seated love for him that she was hiding, or even the start of it.

But then again, perhaps it was what she didn't say that spoke more powerfully, for he had seen the far-off look in her eyes and had noted the change in her demeanor.

Perhaps he would have to try harder than he'd thought.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:** As far as the title of the aria in this chapter goes, I'm going to let you look it up and translate yourself... I feel that me telling you what it means now spoils the surprise for you. And if you read it then learn the meaning of it, I feel like that adds yet another layer and connection that I'll let you discover... ;)

I promise that everything - even if it is not always what you want to read and feels like a filler - is important to the plot progression. There are always things that you have to get out of the way before you can get to the meat of the story that everyone wants. Happy reading and thank you for your support thus far!

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><p>Another plate.<p>

She was relentless.

Would it ever end?

Probably not, or at least not until he actually ate what was on the plate. It had been going on for days. One week and three days, actually, to be exact. He'd been keeping track ever since he realized she wasn't giving up. He had always walked away from it calmly without saying anything and it would disappear before he was back in the room in the afternoon. It was an unspoken arrangement that they seemed to have. He always left it there, and she always understood and took it away, probably eating it as her lunch or a snack while she went about her work.

Erik shook his head and sat at the desk, eyeing the plate in the way he always did, though it wasn't as if he needed to. He already knew what was on it, he had it memorized by now. A small bunch of grapes, three pieces of cheese, four apple slices, and a chunk of bread. He glanced over once more, pursing his lips and shaking his head. Exactly right.

It was infuriating, to be honest. Every day she would leave a plate and if it wasn't already there she would bring it in and say in a sweet voice laced with hidden venom something about how she had brought it "just in case he changed his mind." But he never did, and it was always left untouched much to what he assumed would be her displeasure.

But still, how had he not managed to break her yet? He'd known her to be stubborn, but to this degree? It seemed ungodly irritating and rather unlike how he remembered her. Certain aspects of her, at least - because in their time together one thing he had discovered about her was that she rarely seemed to learn from her mistakes and often committed the same offense twice. More than anything it was proof to him that she never seemed to learn anything, that no matter how much she thought she'd grown up she was still an obstinate little girl at heart and she wouldn't listen to reason.

What was she trying to gain by it? It was like she was trying to wear him down until he gave in. Quite frankly, it was well on its way to working. If only she knew that she was already driving him insane, perhaps then she wouldn't try so hard. If only she knew that every time he saw the flutter of her design floating about the hall or through the foyer he could only do his absolute damndest to keep his eyes from following and licking up every curve that was so snugly enclosed within the boring gray wool of her frock.

It was torture. Absolute torture in the highest degree, and he could do nothing to keep it from happening. Once upon a time he would have felt wretched for feeling such, but things were different now. Any and all guilt that would have formerly been associated with such thoughts was virtually nonexistent. Knowing that she was a grown woman instead of the pure, innocent child that, in her naivety, had hung on his every word and conjured fantasy as if it had been the word of God himself had paved the way for shame to make its final exit. Shame was no longer the culprit that kept him from trying to erase those thoughts; it was bitterness, resentment. She had been the one that had both lifted him out of and subjected him to misery, and just when he'd thought he had finally come to terms with her absence she'd walked back into his life. He couldn't even have the peace of learning to be without her and trying to forget her. He'd been denied both love and closure, if there was such a thing.

He stood from his desk and began to pace, his hands held tightly behind his back and his eyes glued to the floor. Even now, without having seen her at all this morning, she was driving him mad. He heard her walking about in the hall and very nearly darted for the door, closing it tightly and leaning against it. He didn't want to face her, not now. He sighed and ran a hand over his hair, returning to his desk and dismissing the thought. Too often if he actually let his mind wander and thought over the issue he could become a bit wrapped up in it. He reached for the drawer but his eyes froze on the food.

Was it really that he didn't want to face her, though? Now that she was here, did he actually want her to be away from him? Perhaps, more than that, it was just that maybe by giving into this one whim of hers her behavior wouldn't be so torturous to him. If he complied the way she wanted him to he could gain some peace in all of the chaos that she'd managed to bring back into his life, throwing itself at him like an ocean's raging waves.

It was in the midst of these thoughts that he heard it.

At first he almost didn't recognize it – the soft flow of a melody drifting through the crack below the door and towards his ears. Music. Her music. The music that he had used to create her and mold her. He stood and stalked over to the door, standing before it for a moment and listening. There was still the ethereal purity that nothing could take away from her voice, even in her casual melody when she was obviously not thinking of technique or style. Had she no idea what she was doing? He opened the door and stalked toward the sound, deducing it was coming from the foyer where he had presumed her to be minutes before. He turned the corner and stopped in his tracks.

There she was on her hands and knees with a rag in her hand as she scrubbed at the floor, displayed for him in all her curvaceous glory. His eyes followed the generous curve of her spine down, down, down past the slope of her bottom. Her curls were haphazardly tied back and splayed about her shoulders. She must have noticed his presence, for her singing halted and she sat back on her legs, looking up at him from her place on the floor. Her face was flushed pink and there were beads of sweat forming on her forehead and chest. He followed the path of her lily-white skin to where the tops of her breasts pressed cautiously against the constraints of her neckline with every breath.

His mind's eye could all-too-easily picture that creamy skin on a completely bare body void of necklines and dull gray cotton, lying amongst a sea of linens and flushed pink with feverish heat, her curls untamed and dancing about her face like a wild crown.

He cleared his throat and swallowed dryly, forcing his eyes away. Damn her. Damn her, damn her, damn her.

"Do you need me to - "

He ignored her and began to climb the stairs, turning abruptly at the top until he reached one of his forbidden rooms, closing the door a bit too forcefully.

Christine sat on the floor in confusion, the damp rag in her hand, staring up the staircase to where he had vanished. What on earth had all of that been about? She brushed a curl out of her face, slowly resuming her task. She understood that it was uncomfortable for the both of them to be around each other and that he was still bitter, neither of them had really been given enough time yet to accept their new situation.

After a few minutes of silence she slowly began to hum the tune that she'd been singing moments before Erik's strange and sudden appearance had halted her. She plunged the rag back into the bucket of water, then pulled it up and wrung out some of the extra water before slopping it back onto the floor and swirling the rag in circles, watching the puddle of suds slowly venture out further and further.

She smiled to herself, singing and scrubbing. There was something strangely relaxing about it; the simplicity of the task was almost hypnotic and soothing. She was beginning to find herself looking forward to being alone with her thoughts for a while each day as she worked – nothing but her, the water, and the constant pattern of the rag twirling around on the floor.

Her voice swelled sweetly with every note she sang of the delicate refrain, and soon she found herself once again so lost in the melody that she was completely unaware of where the music began. For a moment she was transported back to her days in the opera, making her debut, rehearsing and dancing about as one of the ballerinas… She could hear it as if it was all happening right next to her, just outside her eyelids. There was the sound of maestro cuing the pianist and her own voice, as the leading lady, soaring along above the music accompanying her, wrapping itself around her, encompassing her very being and cradling it securely in the comfort of its embrace.

Somewhere inside her she would have liked to retreat to those days. Unfortunately it wasn't possible. She sighed and opened her eyes, returning from the daydream and, for a moment, feeling the music fade away with it.

Except the music wasn't fading.

She sat back on her legs once again, sitting silent for a moment. Music. She was hearing music – a piano, the same melody that she'd just been singing, the melody that had taken her mind and transported her back to her golden days as a performer. There was only one kind of music that she knew of that could do that, and she hadn't heard it for years. There was no other music she knew that could both burn the skin and chill it at the same time. There was no other music that was so entrancing that one came out of it barely remembering which side was real and which the fantasy.

Christine's hand slowly moved to put the rag back in the bucket of water, and she rose from her knees to stand, her stockings and skirt damp, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and stray curls hanging in her face.

Her hand found the banister and she slowly began to venture up the stairs toward the sound, her mind lost to the notes swirling in her ears. Every step felt like she was once again venturing deeper into the bowels of the Opera, towards a sound that beckoned her and tempted her with its passion. Upon reaching the door she half expected it to be her mirror, and for it to slide away to reveal the man behind it all over again.

She could feel the cool, smooth wood under her fingertips as she stood outside the door. Her hand moved to the knob and for a moment she simply held it, the music dancing wildly with her mind and lighting every nerve. She rested her forehead against the door, her eyes closing once more as she allowed herself to be lost in the sound.

Slowly she found herself turning the knob and opening the door, her eyes fluttered open and she stood in the doorway, facing the large grand piano, peering through the empty face to where she could see Erik sitting, his eyes very nearly boring holes into the keys as his hands furiously floated over them. Such passion, such expertise – and all held within one man, ready to bring forth the most intense beauty at the mere caress of a fingertip. The music was not of his own composition, but what did it matter? That did nothing to change the fact that his performance of it shed an entirely new light on it, that it added another hundred layers of emotion to something that she had thought she already understood. It was astounding, unbelievable.

What his music was capable of doing to her had both frightened her and shocked her, and even now she felt the small seed of discomfort threatening to dig its roots in the pit of her stomach as she realized how easily he had seduced her once again. But she couldn't bring herself to let it, she had surrendered, completely and totally. Nothing about herself was hers at this point; her body, her mind, her soul - everything belonged to the music, everything belonged to him again.

She had missed it more than she had let herself believe.

Her heart swelled with the music as it grew louder, her pulse racing and her skin crawling with fire as the melody rose to meet its climax. She could feel the way her body regained control as the notes regained their composure, dwindling down to bask in the afterglow of their masterpiece. One hand clutched the doorknob, and the other held the doorframe, almost as if she were afraid that her legs would soon be unable to support her and her knees would inevitably buckle and leave her on the floor.

"_Mon cœur s'ouvre à ta voix_," his voice was smooth, calm, collected. The passion of the music had drained him of his tense, pent up lustful discomfort from moments earlier when he'd been in her presence. But regardless of how calm he was, his voice had still jarred awake her from her musical delirium. "Samson et Dalila," he said, still staring at the keys, his eyes never leaving them. Meeting her eyes was impossible, not when he knew the mutual experience they'd just indirectly shared. "Camille Saint-Saëns, 1877, it premiered in Germany. The Garnier never staged it, no one was interested in it, but - "

"I know," she said quietly, cutting him off before his rambling took over and leaving the two of them in silence for several minutes as he continued to stare at the keys. She could see his shoulders moving, and knew that his hands were moving across he keys, gliding over them in the same patterns that they had just played before, but making no sound.

He cleared his throat softly and rather awkwardly standing from the bench and turning his back to her. He ran a hand over his hair and smoothed his jacket with the other before fidgeting with his cuffs slightly, still silent. They stood that way for several minutes, each attempting to find their voice while not wanting to be the one to break the silence for fear of what would come after.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Erik."

He released a gust of air and chuckled somewhat sardonically.

"You never have."

His voice was level, direct. The blatancy was sharp and cutting. She clenched her teeth, her hand instinctively tightening its grip on the doorknob. She refused to let him cut her with his words. "I suppose that was deserved."

At this he turned to look at her, his golden eyes alive and burning. She saw his jaw clench once, twice. Had she truly just said that? That she "supposed" that she deserved what he'd said to her? She was acting as if she was innocent, blameless – as if everything she did should have been brushed off and never thought about twice!

"Suppose?" His voice was low, almost a whisper, a venomous undertone laced within it. She knew she had made a misstep. "You _suppose _it was deserved?" He shook his head and took a few steps towards her. "You can't deny the truth of it! You know that you could never tell Erik what he wanted to hear, you could never be what he wanted you to be. You were too much of a child to know. You were always afraid of Erik, of this!" He gestured to his face, and she could easily picture what was underneath. Too easily, actually.

"You always have been a child, Christine." The words stung, but she pursed her lips and raised her chin defiantly, determined to not let him see what his words were doing to her. "God forbid you ever made a decision for yourself before you had to."

"How could I when you were always making them for me?" she demanded, her voice unnaturally loud. He seemed caught off guard by this, and she attempted to imagine the look of surprise that was hidden under his mask. "_You _can't deny the truth of _that!_" Her cheeks were flushing red. "Everything! Everything from who I saw, to where I went, to which role I sang, I wouldn't even be surprised if you dictated what I ate from time to time!" She stalked towards him, her curls bouncing on her shoulders and falling into her face.

"Oh don't be foolish, Christine. I know it's hard for you," he spat. "Even now you're acting as though you haven't grown at all since your days as a ridiculous little ballet rat."

"I couldn't grow because you wouldn't let me! You put me on a pedestal, you put me next to an ideal that I could never even hope to live up to for the stage of my life that I was in. You expected more of me than what I could give, and you trapped me with it!"

She stared at him for a moment, completely silent. He turned away from her, unable to speak. She reached up to brush her curls out of her face, her pulse throbbing lightly in her ears with adrenaline.

"How could I be what you wanted me to be when it was never about what I wanted, or who I wanted to be? When it was only about what you wanted?" Her voice was a considerable amount softer. She shook her head, running a hand over her curls and looking down at the floor once. "How could I be what you wanted when none of it was ever about me at all?"

He stood stone still, never moving, his back to her and his muscles tense. Christine stood staring at him, she didn't know how long and wasn't exceptionally concerned about it either. Eventually she looked down at her hand, staring at the gold band on her finger.

She pulled it off and walked past him to set it on the edge of the piano before turning and quietly walking out of the room, not bothering to close the door behind her. She retraced the route in her mind: down the hall, down the stairs, back to her puddle. Her footsteps were small and barely noticeable. She picked up the rag and bucket, beginning to take them to the kitchen before pausing and turning to stare towards the door of the drawing room.

Setting the bucket down on the floor, she sighed and made her way to the door. Might as well pick up the plate now – she could use something to eat anyway. She opened the door, but stopped short.

No matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she wanted to be furious, she couldn't keep from grinning victoriously at the sight of the plate sitting on the desk like it always was, but this time completely empty.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: **I don't typically do two of these in a row... But all I am going to say is please E/C fans, as I am an E/C diehard myself, while I know I have withheld your wonderful E/C-ness from you, please have faith in this and don't murder me before these seemingly unforgivable heartbreakers redeem themselves.

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><p>She made her way back to the kitchen with the plate in one hand and her bucket of soapy water in the other, her lips still pursed in a somewhat pleased smile in spite of the words that had just been exchanged. She placed the plate triumphantly next to the sink and hoisted the bucket up onto the ceramic edge, fishing the rag out of the water before tilting it to watch the water flow out and down the drain.<p>

While her spirits had been lifted slightly by her success, it faded quickly and she was left feeling more somber than anything. She couldn't even hope to ignore the gravity of the step that she'd just taken with Erik. At this point their relationship felt a bit like the water pouring from her wash bucket – irreversible and irretrievable. How much damage had she just done? She stared down at the place where his ring should have been on her finger, and began to feel how bare and lost it seemed to look. She felt a sudden unrelenting surge of regret in having taking it off and giving it back to him, wishing that she'd kept it instead. Now she wondered if she would ever get it back.

She wondered if she would ever get him back.

The thought of what it could have meant to him had never crossed her mind, she was unaware of the effect that her actions had had on him in that moment. To her it was the gold band, it was a symbol of him, it was something familiar that helped her connect to her past when she felt that everything she knew had been destroyed.

She'd never even thought for a moment that to him it could have meant and did mean something that was so startlingly different.

Perhaps then, as much as she would have disagreed, she wasn't as grown as she thought, and somewhere within her she was still the thoughtless little girl she'd been before.

She'd had the last word, and had walked away only to find that she'd made another victory with him as well. Two battles won, but where did that put her? It proved to her that she was slowly worming her way under his skin, she was making some sort of progress. Hopefully he was learning that she was no longer the tender, unworldly young thing she'd been two years before. Hopefully he was learning that he would be wise to not underestimate her just as she would be wise to always remember the same about him.

Everything she'd said had been words she'd needed to put on the table for the sake of her own inner voice. Since their being reunited – though the first encounter had felt more like she'd just discovered who her cell mate was for the life sentence that fate had been so kind in forcing upon her – everything that had happened between them, all the frustration and the determination, had pushed her to speak up and challenge him. It urged her to tell him that she wasn't completely wrong in what she did, and that he had no right to act like a saint. Until today her impulsive nature hadn't gotten the better of her. Her words had been contained behind a fence like livestock, and moments ago the gate had been carelessly left open, letting them escape to run free.

Perhaps she'd said everything because she wanted him to understand, somewhere inside her she wanted to earn his respect as a grown woman, a matured individual - an equal.

Unbeknownst to her, her impulsive nature that had felt so empowering and oddly reassuring had been more destructive than she thought, but the aftermath of her crusade for his changed perception of herself was hidden behind a tightly closed door, locked away to remain unseen for an undetermined duration of time.

Until she knew what his thoughts were she would have to assume that they were still butting heads and trying to convince the other of why their apparent worldly wisdom was more accurate. Her stubborn determination would rear its ugly head more now than ever. She wouldn't be the little doll that would dutifully listen to him and always let him decide her every move, or make her moves for her.

He would always be her Angel, but he was no longer her keeper.

She was stirred from her thoughts by the sound of the door in the foyer opening and closing with the heavy sound of the latch popping into place. Damien soon appeared in the kitchen with several envelopes, she assumed all of them addressed to Erik.

He placed them down on the table then strode over to the sink, eyeing the empty plate sitting next to her, grinning pleasantly, the charm evident in his features.

"Had to have his breakfast for lunch again, eh?"

Christine's lips pursed in an attempt to hide the somewhat doleful status of her spirits. While she felt rather empowered by all that had just transpired, there was still a nagging regret and it looked like the barren ring finger of her left hand, constantly reminding her that she may have just taken a step that she couldn't undo.

Contrary to Erik's statement, she'd made a decision for herself. However now there was a part of her that was slowly swaying her into believing she had made the wrong one and that she now might have to live with that knowledge. But that was part of being grown, wasn't it?

"No, actually. I was pleasantly surprised to find it empty when I went to retrieve it today."

His eyebrows rose. "Really, now?" She nodded. "Well. I suppose your persistence paid off, then." He reached out and placed an arm around her shoulders, giving her a gentle squeeze of congratulations. While it was a friendly gesture, she knew his intent was to make her swoon and it only made her more aware of the discomfort that swelled in her stomach.

"I suppose," she said, clearing her throat slightly and not meeting his gaze.

"It's kind of a shame that your efforts went to waste for such a while." Her eyebrows knit slightly. His voice was smooth and collected as he continued to wheedle away at her, hoping that eventually his undeniable charm would succeed and she'd give in to having an affection for him. "If it had been me you wouldn't have had to ask me twice when the request was coming from a girl of your delightful nature."

His remark did little to win her over, and he could see this. Perhaps she was merely playing hard to get and he'd just have to be more forward.

Christine's nose wrinkled in disinterest. Girl – he'd called her a girl. Everyone seemed to think that was all she was, just a young girl with no thought in her head but how pretty and flawless the world around her was. First Erik, now him.

Much to what would have been Damien's dismay had he known, she really only cared about proving herself to the former of the two.

"Whatever you put on that plate must have been good if you managed to persuade him into eating it." He moved to her other side, exchanging his right arm for his left to wrap around her shoulder as he picked up the plate and held it to her with a grin that she found to be too ambiguously charming to trust. Christine was well aware that their simple conversation had turned into him seizing what he apparently believed to be an opportunity to woo her by praising her with incessant flattery for her small victory.

She took the plate from him and placed it in the sink.

"Or perhaps he was no match for the whims of such a bewitchingly pretty lady."

She gave a small, almost uncomfortable laugh and shook her head. She slowly worked her way out from under his arm, placing several dishes in the sink before beginning to wash them. She wasn't in the mood for this, not after everything that had just happened with Erik. There was too much on her mind now, and she couldn't sift between what to make of her new feelings about all that had just occurred. The more she had to stand and think about it the more she felt her heart sinking in her chest and wanting to go back and reverse it all.

Something told her that it wouldn't be easy to reverse.

Now that she realized that she could be losing what relationship she had left with him, she felt the panic rising in her throat. She wanted it back.

She felt sick. What had she done?

She needed to get out, to go find a place where she could clear her head and think freely without Damien meddling in her thoughts and distracting her.

"Oh, come now – "

"I'm going to go get some fresh air."

"I'll come with – "

"Thank you, but that really isn't necessary."

With that she turned and abruptly walked out, leaving him standing next to the sink with his charming façade fading with every step she took in the other direction.

Her disinterest was obvious, and he knew that there was only one thing behind it, one thing that stood in his way. For what other reason would she possibly be disinterested in him? Two completely different men, and she was held back by the one who, in Damien's opinion, couldn't win a woman to save his life. Things were not going as planned. He wasn't succeeding. The choice was obvious, why was she not making it? What was he doing to keep her from making it?

One hand found the pocket of his trousers and the other moved to rub his mouth in thought. He began to pace slightly, attempting to think of a new way to win her. He'd tried talking to her and getting to know her, but that was a circular plan that always lead back to Monsieur Durant somehow because apparently everything in her life had something to do with him. He'd tried wooing her, but that had proven to be flawed as well – she'd been so severely disinterested that she'd left and told him not to follow her.

Perhaps it had nothing to do with what he was doing…

He sighed, his brows knitting together in frustration. If he wanted any sort of chance in gaining her desire then needed to think of something quickly. He could tell that he was losing her. His mind thought back to the week before when they'd been sitting down at the table together and their conversation had drifted to Monsieur Durant, how she'd had that distant look in her eyes.

It was ultimately Monsieur Durant that was in his way.

Damien turned and placed his hands on the edge of the sink, leaning on it and staring in at the plates sitting there. That plate. That damned plate – if he hadn't eaten the food on it…

That was when the idea hit him.

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><p>Hours had passed since they'd tangled with each other. The sun had sunk low below the horizon by now, and both Damien and Christine had left the house, leaving him as the sole inhabitant amongst the shadows.<p>

There was a strange silence, an uncomfortable silence. Erik had never been one to be disturbed by silence; he had lived with it for a good deal of his life when he wasn't playing music. Unless he ventured to the upper levels, living in the deepest cellars of the Opera didn't exactly provide for a vast amount of entertainment outside of what you could do by yourself. Silence had been a friend to him, even an accomplice, until now.

A fire blazed away in the fireplace, the wood crackling and spitting as it burned away into nothing. He sat before to the fire, his eyes staring into the flames. He rested his elbow on the arm of the chair, his hand clenched into a fist with his thumb pressed to his lip. His mask lay on a small table nearby. He hadn't moved from the spot since their encounter except to light the fire. He'd left his music room and secluded himself in his bedroom, requesting nothing and refusing Damien any time he knocked to ask if he needed anything.

His mind kept mulling over her words, unable to remove the sound of her voice as she'd said them from his ears. There was some truth in what she'd said – but how could she say it had never been about her when he had done everything for her? Everything that was within his power to make her career take flight, to teach her, to help her in her grief, to love her. He'd done it in hopes that she would find a way to love him back. But it had been proven that even she - the one woman who he had made himself vulnerable enough to love – couldn't bring herself to accept him.

He wasn't sure which had hurt more: the moment she'd left him, the moment he'd thought her dead, or the moment when he heard her place the ring next to him and walk away while he couldn't force himself to stop her.

He cracked. The thought of her walking away again was too much. His composure crumbled like rotten foundation below a great piece of architecture, refusing to support it any longer as if it was its time to break. The realization of what had happened weighed down upon him becoming too much to bear. He clenched his fist until his knuckles turned a ghastly white, his lips pursed and eyes closed tightly. His jaw clenched with such tension that he felt it might shatter.

Three times he had lost her.

He pulled his hand away from his lips and opened his eyes. He could feel how wet they were, the quiet moisture clinging to his eyelashes and leaving damp traces on his cheeks. For several minutes he merely stared down at his clenched fist, trying to muster the courage to expose what was held inside. Earlier he felt that he hadn't been able to face her, now he wondered if he would be able to face the very thought of her.

There was a sickening sense of finality in the gesture that had torn through him and caused a pain even greater than the tortures he'd endured in Persia, a pain greater than being shunned by the world and greater than the moment he had let her go.

He very nearly had to pry his fingers open to stare at the ring that he clutched so tightly inside. A gush of air was sucked from his lungs and he nearly gasped and choked on his breath upon seeing it now.

He remembered too vividly the instructions he had given her concerning it. She was to keep it until his death whereupon she was to place it on his finger and bury it with him. He shuddered and choked the sob threatening to form in his throat,leaving only the bravest of his tears to pass from his eyes and flee down his bare face.

She'd returned the ring, yet he still lived. She'd made her message all too clear. Dead.

He was dead to her.

There was no other explanation. He stared at the ring in his hand again, suddenly alive to the grave weight of it as it sat upon his palm before bringing it to his lips, pressing it there. He closed his eyes. The metal felt shockingly frigid. It was unwelcoming, harsh.

"Oh, Christine…" he murmured against the band.

Of the three times he had lost her, twice she had returned. The first being the night he'd let her go and she'd come back moments later bleary-eyed and shaken – it was the last intimate moment he had ever hoped to have with her before he sent her away again.

The second had been when the Daroga had informed him of her death in the fire. A month and a half later she had showed up unexpectedly on his doorstep with a box full of suits, having survived and hidden herself within the middle class until her untimely discovery. And she had stayed. Something had made her stay with him.

The third time had been earlier that day when she had returned his ring.

He wasn't certain that she would come back this time.

"Only one I have loved," he whispered against the ring held against his lips. "Only one."

If there was a higher being in the world, Erik was unsure of whether or not he should be convinced of its existence at this point. If Erik was a man, which he was, was he not a son of God all the same, regardless of his devil's face? He'd always been told that God didn't torture His children. Perhaps God didn't torture His children unless they were like himself - snubbed by the world and then hated for their response to it. Was this penance for his sins?

"If You're there," he barely choked the words out, his voice small and yielding to his sorrows, "I don't know what more You want from me." His hand dropped from his mouth.

"I don't know what more You could take." His jaw clenched and his breathing began to accelerate. His voice rose in volume, and he felt the sorrow being replaced with rage. "Haven't You taken it all already?"

Silence. No response.

"How could I ever have given You anything when You took everything from me before I could ever even begin to understand the true cruelty of Your ways? Before I could learn to try protect myself against the rejection?"

He stood, clutching the ring in his fist once more and began to pace, his mind becoming prisoner to hysteria and his voice ever rising, thundering off the walls and tossing his words about like a boat on a stormy sea.

His hands found the mask on the table and he held it up, staring up as he went on.

"A real face, a real mother's love, a real _life!_ All these You took before You even gave them to me! I dare not hope for anything anymore for fear it will be ripped away from me just as I begin to feel it is safe to cling to!"

His whole body shook with the fury that coursed through his veins, and he soon flung the table over that the mask had been sitting on.

"So much I could have done was I a normal man. And all for You! For You, Your name! Yet you deny me!"

His free hand tangled in his hair, and his pulse pounded furiously in his ears.

Three times he had lost her.

It taunted him now.

"I only asked for her, only her – the love of a woman, of my sweet Christine, and it was too much to ask!" He was losing himself to his rage, his mind sinking deeper into the quicksand of his temper that he so easily succumbed to so often.

"You refused me, You shunned me like the rest of them!" He paused and stood still for a moment, his body heaving. When he continued his voice was a deadly calm, a haunting tranquility that held an underlying threat. "Three times You've refused me." His voice grew louder once more. "You returned her to me only to refuse me and tear her away, and every time I come close to learning to forget how to love her You even deny me that!" His voice continued to grow. "Am I to never be given the grace of consoling myself in solitude because of Your sick fascination with making my life a game? Is it your intent that I never find comfort in anything?"

He paused as if waiting for a response once more before calling out.

"I do not love her!" he roared before clutching the ring to his lips once more, his other arm wrapped around his abdomen. "Is that what You want to hear? You want me defeated?"

His breaths were ragged, and his head throbbing and hammering wildly with fevered distress.

His voice broke for the last time and he sank to his knees.

"I do not love her," he whimpered once more, his being cracked and broken. He had long since given up his attempt to keep the calm, collected façade that he had barely managed to hold together in her presence for the past week. He allowed himself to be weak, to be broken. Perhaps that was what God wanted for him.

"I do not love her."

Three times he uttered the words.

He had barely been able to choke them out the last time before giving way to tears of the bleakest melancholic grief; still he knew them to be false. Still he did not believe it.

Three times he had lost her.


	14. Chapter 14

Erik sat before the mirror the next morning, staring blankly into it at his reflection.

That horrid reflection, if it couldn't even be called a reflection. It was the one thing that had caused him more grief in his life than anything else. From his reflection all of his trials seemed to develop.

His hand moved to trace the distorted features. His fingers drew the outline of his thin lips leading to his hollow, boney cheeks with their malformed flesh and scars – scars and fresh sores from where his mask rubbed the skin raw from wearing it so often as of late. The skull-like black hole where his nose refrained from ever developing. His eyes moved up to meet the eyes of his reflection. Sunken and worn. Weary.

Dead.

Sleep had evaded him the entire night; no matter how much he may have exhausted himself his mind was too alert, too on edge. It wasn't like lack of sleep really made a difference when it came to his appearance – he always looked like death, so he felt as though there was nothing to worry about. And it wasn't as if his not sleeping was different from normal, except that he would have gladly taken time off from his thoughts. His mind had nearly destroyed him between shifts of grief and mania, relentlessly eating away at what little sanity he held onto.

Surely there was something to be said when only a week or so after her arrival he'd managed to drive her away. How was it that when he had never wanted anything more than to have her in his life he could do nothing to keep her there?

At one point he had learned how to cope with her absence. It had been in the years after that fateful night below the Opera. He had accepted that she was no longer physically part of his life, and while acceptance did little make him miss her any less it had at least helped to haphazardly stitch up the torn seams of his heart. By acknowledging it he could try to put himself on the road to forgetting her. He'd known that he would never be truly all right without her, but eventually he would learn to live with it.

Just when he'd thought that he'd been making some sort of progress the Daroga had arrived bearing the bad news of her death and he'd lived through an entirely new level of grief. He hadn't let her go so that she would inevitably greet death a short time later. He'd thought that by sending her away he was saving her – he was keeping her out of the darkness and giving her the life in the sunlight that she'd been destined for. She was supposed to outlive him, she was suppose to live a long happy life with her boy, as much as he hated the thought of it. It was he who was supposed to die and let her go on without being troubled by thoughts of him or feeling constant paranoia at the thought that somewhere he still lived and could potentially wreak havoc on her life once more.

It was only when that had proven to be false that he understood the extent to which his heart was being tested. He'd never expected the second hit, he'd never thought that he'd be pushed to his limit the way he had been when she'd retreated from their argument after returning his ring.

And to think… To think that just before they had shared such a powerful meeting. He couldn't help but think back to it with a morose sense of incredulity. There was no doubt that their most passionate moments occurred through music. Through music they created a world where everything else sank away into nothingness, and nothing existed but the two of them and the blazing surge of the melodic refrains coursing through their veins. This time the music had brought them together only for the two of them to take ten steps backwards and alienate each other.

Had he found her in the room under any other circumstances he would have been furious, it would have been as though she was invading a mutual portion of their past that he so often refused to face, but it had been so long since he'd had any sort of connection with her, and to think that he'd drawn her in to him… He'd been lost in it, they both had been. He knew the power that his music held over, and he wasn't blind to the way she'd responded to it; he'd noticed all too quickly the way her skin was flushed pink and her entire state had become so thoroughly aroused and alive with the thrill of a melody. It was in that moment that he remembered what had drawn him to her and why he'd been so intent on keeping her with him the first time, for in an instant he felt as though he had re-lived the first moment he'd fallen in love with her, all he'd wanted to do was keep her there with him and forever let the two of them bask in the fire of the music they could create.

But still he managed to drive her away.

It pained him to think of it now, especially while he knew that she was just downstairs, a few rooms away, yet he couldn't have her. He should have known. What had ever possessed him to think that things could have changed between them, that he could actually have her as his own? God forbid he ever dare to dream of anything lovely befalling him.

He would simply have to resign to living with what he had been given, and understand not to ask for anything more.

His hands found his mask. He held it for a moment, fingering the leather absentmindedly. He sighed and he placed it on his face, flinching slightly as the hard, unfeeling material rubbed against his skin, the raw patches scolding him with stinging pain as if his mask was made of thousands of small pins, each one pricking him over and over again, unyielding and persistent.

He smoothed his hair, then ran a comb through it to make it presentable. He knew that he had to put on another mask the moment he walked out the door, and it was a mask that could have no faults. He smoothed his lapels and adjusted his cuffs, taking once last glance around to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything.

His eyes paused on the ring.

After a moment, his hand moved slowly to pick it up. He held it, turning it over between his fingers. Silently he placed it in the breast pocket of his suit jacket, just over his heart, knowing that there she would always be close.

With quiet courage he stood, resuming his calm façade, and moved to his door, leaving the wreckage of his bedroom to continue down the path of learning to cope.

* * *

><p>Christine stood in the kitchen fixing a plate for him, slicing the last few pieces of apple and placing them on the plate. There was an uncomfortable tension stirring within her at the sight of the plate, knowing that this would mean some sort of confrontation between the two of them. After the previous day's incident she found herself dreading the very thought of having to walk shamefully into that room.<p>

Would he even eat it? She couldn't be sure now that any progress she'd made with him had probably been ruined.

From the hall she could hear the sound of quiet footsteps on the stair. Her heart began to race and she turned slightly over her shoulder to look, knowing what she was going to find.

Their eyes met, and he paused with his hand on the banister, his face stony and composed. They stood in lengthy, defining silence until he turned and continued towards the drawing room, just as he did every morning.

Was this how they were to go on living? Him silent and cold, and her too meek with regret to reach out? He was the only thing familiar to her now, it terrified her to think of losing him. She could only assume that her bridges with Madame Deniel had been burned when she'd sent the correspondence concerning the termination of her employment with Damien that day. The Girys she had essentially abandoned, she hadn't spoken to them or visited since before she'd arrived here except for the note she'd sent, and they had to be left to thinking that something had actually happened to her or that she no longer needed them. Raoul… It was all too vivid what had happened to Raoul, and she really only made it through her days by not thinking about him at all.

She wasn't sure that she could handle knowing that the unspoken decision had been made, that the two of them were to simply live out whatever life they had left together in silence, almost as if they both understood what had occurred and felt as though nothing could change it.

How she wished she could change it!

Unfortunately she knew Erik's iron will all to well, and she knew that changing his mind would be no easy task.

She'd laid awake late into the night, tossing and turning in her bed unable to sleep. It had taken everything she had to not slip out and venture into the other house to see if she might find him awake and attempt to untangle the mess that she'd created so many hours before. It was one of the first times that she hadn't given in to her impulsive emotions. Part of her wished that she had simply for the fact that it could have changed the way their encounter from mere moments ago had occurred. That stare had been burned into her memory – the horrid gravity of it made her heart sink low in her chest and she understood the firm finality of their situation.

She wasn't resigning to simply give up, but she needed to give herself time to think of something that was worth throwing out as means of trying to reason with him. If she was going to try and change things, she would have to make sure that he would hear her.

Her fingers found the rim of the plate and she stared down at it, questioning whether or not she really wanted to take it to him. Ultimately she concluded that if he was already prepared to continue on with the understanding of the previous day's events that for now she would have to take the same path.

Mustering up whatever was left of her nerve, she put on her bravest face and began on her way to the drawing room. When she reached the door she almost wanted to turn around and run back to the kitchen, but she knew that it would only lead to disappointment. What was she so afraid of? Perhaps it was that she didn't want to see the result of her actions from the day before, she didn't want to be reminded that this was because of her.

Before she could give herself too much time to think and talk herself out of it, she knocked lightly on the door.

"Yes?" It sounded more like a statement than an inquiry. She opened the door quietly to slip in. He must have known what it was, for he didn't bother turning around from his desk. Her small feet padded faintly across the floor in her little flat shoes, and she quietly placed the plate on the desk next to him then took a few steps back, her eyes remaining on him.

He didn't acknowledge it and continued on with his business. Christine stood with her apron clenched in her hands, fingering the material nervously.

"I… I brought it… Just in case. In case you might want it," she said softly, praying that it would elicit some sort of response from him. A simple "thank you" or even telling her that he didn't want it would have been more than she was hoping for at this point.

Her prayers were not answered as he still said nothing and – at this point – seemingly refused to recognize her presence. With that she gave a small, somewhat dejected nod and turned to go, feeling fresh tears stinging behind her eyes.

She took several steps towards the door before hesitating, reluctant to go and wanting to try and say something to reason with him, the idea of giving herself time to think of something completely abandoned. She turned back and involuntarily reached out towards him with one hand, watching as it hovered inches above his shoulder, opening her mouth as if ready to speak. Her voice was nowhere to be found however, and even if she'd been able to find it her mind could not supply any words. What could she say? Was there anything left to say?

She clamped her mouth shut and chewed her lip, turning abruptly and walking out quickly as she felt several tears break loose and spill down her cheeks. She closed the door behind her, leaning against it and feeling thankful for the secure, sturdy wood against her back. It seemed to be the only dependable thing left in her life at that moment.

A sigh passed by her lips and after several minutes of recollecting herself she stood upright, sniffling and wiping her eyes. She was being childish, and the last thing she wanted to be perceived as was a weak, overly sensitive child when she'd been so determined to prove that she was better than that. If he could act like a well-composed adult then she could do the same in spite of her heart's objections.

And so she held her chin high, consoled and bandaged her proud, wounded heart and began back towards the kitchen, embracing the consequences she was presented with and attempting to formulate a plan as how to endure them.

Inside the room, Erik sat back in his chair staring at the plate of food with his hand pressed over his heart, the gold ring held lovingly in between.

* * *

><p>Damien sat in the kitchen of the other house, several large books that he'd snatched from Monsieur Durant's library splayed out in front of him. He knew that he didn't have much time, for Monsieur Durant would surely notice if the books were gone considering their size, it would create quite a large gap in the shelf. Besides that, he wouldn't even doubt that he would know exactly which books were missing as well. He certainly was eccentric enough, it wouldn't be much of a surprise.<p>

He'd already decided exactly what he wanted, but was stuck on how to carry it out. The moment that he'd made the connection between Monsieur Durant eating his breakfast and his desire to eliminate him from being the obstacle that was keeping him from Christine he'd known that all he had to do was find the proper way to do it.

The nib of his pen scratched against the parchment in front of him, scribbling down notes that would ultimately be burned later to prevent him being discovered. He turned a page, reading several paragraphs before taking down more notes. He'd made his way through the large anthology of various toxic substances, deciding that none of them were fitting enough. This one was too sudden, the other too simple. That one wasn't painful enough while this one was detectable to the victim's senses.

He wanted something slow, something painful - something that would make the unlucky bastard writhe and cling to his last breaths until he wouldn't even think to beg for another second as it would only mean that he would be submitting himself to more suffering.

Had he known that he was planning the attempted execution of the Angel of Death himself, he might have had to chuckle. Or perhaps he would have been slightly intimidated.

Hell, he might have even asked for some advice considering his lack of luck in finding anything worthwhile to him.

Ultimately, he'd decided that attempting anything via chemicals or other various poisons was out of the question. He needed something natural, something that wouldn't be questioned.

He closed the book in front of him and opened another, a book on various toxic plants. This seemed more probable and much less incriminating. No one would guess that he'd been poisoned if he found the right one. Perfect.

Page after page he searched for the perfect possibility. He made his way through various toxic vegetables, berries, leaves… Nothing seemed to fit, and if it fit he wasn't sure that he'd be able to identify it and would probably end up feeding him something that would give him a mild stomachache at best.

He flipped the page to see the large title of the next section and began browsing. Mushrooms… It was a possibility that he hadn't thought of. He'd seen some around the back of the small servant house near the edge of the timber as of late, and he'd heard stories of men who had offed themselves by inaccurately identifying certain wild mushrooms as edible.

Perhaps…

He stood quickly, almost tripping over the chair with urgency, and charged out the door to find the spot where he'd seen them. Once he spotted one he dug around for more, and he plucked a few of the larger ones and took them back inside, wildly flipping through the pages to attempt to identify them and match them to one of the visual depictions next to each different kind.

The more he turned the pages the more he saw his plan crumbling into dust. They were nowhere to be found, and could easily be dumped into the 'mild stomachache' category. He began to grow frustrated. How was he ever going to pull this off when he couldn't even find a single damn possibility with a disgustingly large plethora of possibilities sitting in front of him?

He pursed his lips, turning another page when a clipping fell out onto the floor. He picked it up and examined it with narrow eyes, scanning the text to try and discern what it was. _Coprinus atramentarius_, the common ink cap. It was an article on another type… the type that matched the mushroom sitting next to him on the table.

What luck, some higher power was surely smiling down on him today to give him such a fortunate find.

He continued reading, scribbling down notes as he went. However, when he reached a certain point his face fell once more.

It wasn't commonly fatal, much to his disappointment. How was he supposed to poison someone with a substance that wouldn't be fatal? He was about to turn the page and move on when he saw a scrap of paper wedged into the spine between the pages like a bookmark. He pulled it out and unfolded it, staring at the handwritten note inside which he recognized as Monsieur Durant's handwriting.

_July 23, 1882, Coprinus atramentarius - __Noticed these and decided to investigate. Generally edible, however, refrain from consuming with alcohol – deduced through careful observation that it is only toxic when the two are consumed together, or even if alcohol is consumed hours – even days - later; creates significantly uncomfortable, alarming illness._

A dark grin formed on his face. Poor fellow, by way of his "careful observation" he'd just given Damien all the information he needed to put the stamp on his death certificate.

There was still some doubt lingering in the back of his mind. The note said illness, which was far from fatality. But Monsieur Durant was not a young man in perfect health, by any means, and the mushroom apparently contained toxic chemicals to some extent, why else would Monsieur Durant have made the point to go out of his way to physically add it to the book? Damien was by no means a toxicologist, but he was almost sure that if he slipped him enough it would be a fatal dose – or at least enough to make him so ill that he wouldn't recover and would simply give in to death instead of being so painfully ill.

Just what he wanted – slow, torturous, frightening. It was perfect.

He scribbled down several more important notes for himself then paused. Where would he put it? How was he going to disguise a mushroom? He tried to think back to everything that she took him for breakfast. Apples, cheese, grapes... Bread. The bread! He'd mash them up until they were unrecognizable and slip them into the bread dough before she baked it, leaving it to be the vessel that carried Monsieur Durant out of the picture.

With that, he replaced the papers to their original places and closed the book, intending to return it as soon as possible. He grabbed the mushrooms that he'd set on the table and placed them in his pocket, then went back outside and collected a great deal more. It wasn't as if he could get too many. Really, was there ever a thing as too much poison when it came to murder?

Monsieur Durant had made a mistake by giving in and cleaning his plate, for now that he'd proven that he would eat, Christine wouldn't just serve him his breakfast in the morning.

She'd serve him his demise.

Several days later he woke, donned his clothes and made himself presentable. He entered the kitchen to find her sitting at the table ready to leave to go to the main house and begin her work.

"Christine?"

She looked up from where she sat.

"Before you take him his breakfast, you'll have to bake another loaf of bread. We're fresh out."


	15. Chapter 15

He'd watched her as she baked the bread throughout the morning, mixing all of the ingredients and covering herself in flour in the process.

Just as she'd dumped the dough onto the table to begin kneading it he'd walked in, asking her if she could make a quick run back to the servant house to fetch his appointment book for him, explaining that he needed it before going into the city and that he would have done it himself except that Monsieur Durant had just requested him in the drawing room at that particular moment. She'd agreed and slipped out the back door of the kitchen after cleaning off her hands, and after making sure that she was a good distance away and wouldn't come back for any unforeseen reason he seized his opportunity.

He'd pulled the napkin full of the paste-like, mashed up mushrooms from his jacket and placed them on the bread dough. After a glance over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching or that she wasn't returning unexpectedly he'd kneaded them in thoroughly, then washed his hands and disappeared until he heard her return. He'd waited a few minutes before walking back in and thanking her, taking his appointment book from the edge of the table and watching as she continued kneading the bread, smiling to himself as he walked out the front door to go into town, knowing that when he came back his plan would already be taking flight.

He'd never even thought to account for the possibility that the bread would never reach its intended target.

Upon returning several hours later in the late afternoon, he made his way down the hall to the drawing room, knocking and entering to find Monsieur Durant standing at one of his bookshelves with a glass of wine in his hand, browsing through the titles for the one that he needed. The plate was nowhere to be found, so he had to assume that Christine had already appeared to retrieve it. He grinned to himself.

It wouldn't be long.

"I've just returned from the city, I have the paper from today and your mail. The new drapes and table that you requested for your bedroom will be ready tomorrow."

Monsieur Durant turned from the bookshelf and held out his hand. Damien passed him the newspaper and the envelopes, watching as his eyes scanned over the headlines. He moved to set it down on the desk, along with his nearly empty glass of wine before flipping through the various envelopes and reading the return addresses.

Damien waited patiently, every nerve in his body virtually alive and ready to spring with anticipation. Any moment now… Any moment now he would begin to fall into an illness that he wouldn't be able to pull himself out of. The only thing that Damien had to do was stand by and wait for it.

"Tomorrow I will need you to go into the city and stop in at a few shops. You'll need to go take care of – "

He was cut off by the sound of a loud crash coming from several rooms away. It was the sound of several pans hitting the floor accompanied by the sound of glass and ceramic shattering.

"What in the name of – "

Damien was unable to finish for he was quickly pushed out of the way. He stumbled backwards, a completely bewildered look on his face as he watched him rapidly leave the room on the verge of a run. After several seconds he collected himself and followed.

He wasn't the least bit prepared for what he saw.

Christine knelt on the floor near the sink. Her skin was flushed and she looked confused. Damien's eyes scanned the scene, looking for some sort of evidence as to what had caused her to apparently fall and cause such a commotion. She wasn't clumsy – in fact she always had an ethereal air of grace about her that made her seem as if she floated across the floor, her feet never even needing to touch the ground. Something wasn't right.

His eyes fell upon the large table in the center of the room, and he felt the color drain from his face, horrified by what he saw.

A plate with a half eaten slice of bread on it, the loaf of bread itself, which was far smaller than it had been when she'd taken him his breakfast in the morning, and lastly the opened bottle of wine sitting next to an empty, used wine glass.

No, it couldn't… It hadn't happened. Surely she hadn't…

He hadn't even thought twice about the fact that she could have ended up eating the bread instead.

Erik stood in the doorway with his mouth hanging open slightly, virtually astonished into silence. He wanted nothing more than to rush to her but was unable to move his legs. His mind was virtually screaming at him, telling him there was obviously something wrong, but he couldn't make himself move from the spot. He could do no more than simply stare in debilitating shock, unable to believe the sight before his eyes.

There were several pans lying on the floor, shards of dishes, and worst of all it looked as though she'd taken hefty amount of crystal glasses down with her. She knelt in the middle of all of them, surrounded by a sea of destruction looking as though she had no idea how she'd managed to get there.

"Erik, I'm sorry, I… I'm sorry," she said, her voice sounding somewhat muddled. "I don't want you to be angry even though I know you probably are… but… but I didn't mean… I didn't mean to, I promise. I promise I'll clean it up, I promise." She was rambling now, her mind in an obvious state of disorder.

He watched her as she tried to stand, his eyes never leaving her wavering form. She did no more than get her feet underneath her when she wobbled and began to fall again. Immediately he was spurred into action, snapping forward to catch her but a moment too late. She tumbled back to the floor, her first reaction being to place her hands in front of her to catch herself.

This was her worst mistake.

She did manage to catch herself, but it was at the expense of her hands, for when she caught herself she landed in the dense amount of glass shards which dug themselves into the tender flesh of her palms. The moment she felt the way her skin gave way and tore in response to the demand of the razor-like fragments she cried out in terror, panicking and attempting to push herself up out of the wreckage but only finding more glass pushing itself into her hands every where she turned.

Erik was by her side in an instant, inwardly berating himself that he hadn't managed to catch her in time to spare her the pain that she'd just accidentally inflicted upon herself. "Christine, Christine," he continued to repeat her name urgently, attempting to get her attention. If he was going to try to calm her down he needed to make her listen to him.

He held her by the shoulders as she now sat in a complete state of fright, her mind unable to acquire any understanding as to what was happening to her. Everywhere she looked she couldn't make sense of anything – her world was spinning and no matter how hard she tried to focus on Erik's face she couldn't make it happen. Tears were inevitable, and she let herself cry fiercely without shame. To hell with trying to be an adult, this was an entirely new realm of fright that she'd never experienced.

Her mind was running rampant in a complete state of chaos, but everything she tried to tell her body to do never reached its destination in time. She felt weak. Every nerve in her body was alive, yet she was exhausted.

Was this death? Was this what it felt like to die?

She was completely and utterly terrified at the thought. There was something wrong with her. She continued to mumble apologies to him, unable to keep her mind on one thought for longer than a few seconds. Her trembling hands hovered in front of her where nothing could touch them, stinging and screaming, burning with pain, bloodied and filled with glass.

Erik took her face in his hands. "Christine, Christine listen to me. Listen." He managed to quiet her horrified sobs into frightened whimpers as his cool hands stroked her florid cheeks, brushing her messy curls out of her face and smoothing them. "You need to try to calm down, Christine. Just breathe." She shook her head.

"I can't, Erik… I can't! I don't… I don't know what's happening." She attempted to catch her breath but found that she couldn't. No matter how fervently she urged her lungs to take in air she could never seem to get enough. Her head throbbed with pain, though whether it was from the intensity of her crying or whatever it was that was tormenting her body she was unsure.

"Christine, what happened? What happened to you?" He was trying to remain calm, but there was an undeniable sense of urgency in his voice. He still held her face in his hands, holding her steady and attempting to keep her focused on his face. He had to try to calm her, or at least keep her hysteria in check until he could attempt to discern what was going on.

"I… don't… I don't know…" She continued to tremble violently, her pulse thundering in her ears. "I… I took your plate this morning, and… since you didn't eat any… of it… I ate it like… like I always do."

Damien cringed visibly, glad that the attention was not focused on him at the moment.

Her heart continued to beat furiously in her chest; it was alarming how vigorously it was pounding away inside her. Occasionally it felt like it was skipping beats. It felt like it was trying to burst out of her body.

"After… after that I did… all of my work… and… then I had some bread for lunch, and some wine." She could barely keep her eyes focused on him, his face was floating in front of her, waltzing with her eyes until she felt so dizzy that she thought she might pass out. She began to feel a terrible sickness in her stomach, crawling into her throat and threatening to compel her to spill the contents of her stomach. She reached up and pressed the backs of her hands to her temples, closing her eyes tightly and hoping to try and make the cruel ache behind her eyes go away.

"Erik, my head hurts… Everything hurts… I can't – "

"Christine, stay focused, stay with me." He ran a hand over her curls. "Look at me. Try, I need you to try."

She opened her eyes, tears still running down her cheeks as she tried to discern which face in front of her was actually his and which was merely a dizzy duplicate. She looked away for a moment, seeing Damien's blurred figure in the background. Her troubled mind didn't recognize him, all she understood was that he was a young man standing just behind Erik.

Her heart leapt amidst its wild beats, her mind giving her a false hope that she called out to.

"Who is that? Is that… Is that Raoul? Raoul!" She reached for him. Erik's heart sank. "Raoul, it's me, it's me! Oh, Raoul, how I've missed you, how much I've missed you!"

He could feel his heart breaking all over again with every mention of the name. He knew she was confused, that she didn't know what she was talking about, but it pained him all the same that she would so eagerly wish for her boy.

But why wouldn't she? She loved him, he'd known how much she loved him. As much as he despised acknowledging it as the truth, he had no other choice.

"Christine, Raoul isn't here." Her face fell, she looked crushed. He almost regretted telling her.

"…He isn't?"

"No, mon ange, he's not." It pained him to see her so devastated, especially when he knew it pertained to the young man he'd lost her to. "Raoul is gone, he isn't coming back."

"He's… he's not? But he has to… He loves me, he… he loves me… " Her voice tapered off and her lip quivered, an entirely new set of tears welling up in her eyes.

"Christine," he began softly, "look at me. Tell me more about what happened." He couldn't let her continue, not for the sake of her humiliated spirits. He needed to spare his own heart as well. "What happened after you had your lunch?"

She continued to stare past him at Damien, who stood frozen, trapped by her haunting gaze.

"Christine." Erik's firm voice slowly persuaded her to look away and back to his face, meeting his gaze.

"…I was washing dishes… and… then I felt lightheaded and… I tried to grab something… to hold on to… and then I fell anyway…" She paused and attempted to catch her breath. Her whole body felt hot, and she felt as though she might burn up any second. She looked down at her hands as they throbbed with pain, growing sticky with blood.

Meekly, her eyes moved to his face once more, and with a quivering, reluctant voice she spoke. "Erik… Am I going to die?"

Erik could see the fear in her eyes. He knew that she genuinely believed that she was not going to survive this.

Damien felt faint at the thought and leaned against the doorframe for support. He'd done it. He'd been the one that had put her in this state. He only prayed that she would live to see another day and that Monsieur Durant wouldn't find out, that he wouldn't know what it had been that had made her so vehemently ill. If he did it would surely be the end of his days.

"No, no my darling, you aren't going to die, you're going to be perfectly fine." He was quick to reassure her, hoping that it would help her to calm down. His hands moved from her tear-stained face to the base of her jaw, and he could feel her rapid pulse beneath her hot, blushing skin. In the midst of listening to what she told him he'd taken note of her symptoms: rapid pulse, dizziness, confusion, flushed skin, apprehension, trouble breathing… He recognized all of the signs, but there was one that was missing.

Just then she jerked away from him and scrambled for the sink, struggling to pull herself up by her elbows. She managed to stand weakly over porcelain basin, beginning to retch and lose the contents of her stomach.

Vomiting, the missing symptom.

He stood and stepped over to her, glass crunching and popping beneath his shoes. He stood behind her, wrapping one arm around her abdomen to help support her weak legs and keeping her curls out of her face with the other. He murmured gentle words, attempting to put her at ease to some extent while her small body heaved and jerked violently with sickness.

When her stomach had finally removed all that it could for the moment, he reached for a rag and wiped her face, then pulled her up and held her to him, always being careful to keep her wounded hands where he wouldn't inflict any more pain. She'd been through far too much already.

"You need to lie down, Christine." She laid her face against his chest, sniffling while tears trickled down her cheeks. She still trembled slightly, her body weary and exhausted, ready to give up at any moment. Her eyes were still spinning, and she felt unbelievably lightheaded. Of all the things that didn't make sense to her in thismoment, she did understand sleep, and she wanted it desperately. "Come, let's put you to bed."

He slowly moved with her away from the sink, his arms wrapped securely around her to keep her from going down again. Her feet stumbled over each other, her knees weak and uncoordinated like a newborn lamb. Upon reaching the door, he paused and turned back to Damien who was standing at the table examining the plate and the loaf of bread.

"Damien, sweep up all of that glass and clean up the sink, wipe up the blood. Toss the bread, and after you've finished all that brew some tea to bring up for the young lady." Damien nodded, catching the briefest glimpse of what looked like an inferno flashing behind Monsieur Durant's eyes before he turned back and began to help Christine ascend the stairs.

He didn't seem to know what had happened to her, but he had remained startlingly calm throughout the entire situation. He must have known that she would survive it, even if it did make her horrendously ill. He felt a strong sense of relief the moment he was left alone, finding it easier to tell himself that Monsieur Durant had no idea.

He reached for the broom and began sweeping up the glass, his mind still not fully processing what had just played out before him.

Upon reaching the top of the stairs, Erik patiently led her down the hall towards one of the spare bedrooms. He helped her onto the bed and pulled off her small shoes, taking note of the bit of blood around her ankles that had soaked her stockings and the few glass shards that had apparently made prey of her there as well, then sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked her cheek.

"Just relax, my dear. I need to go and fetch some bandages and other things for – "

She sat up with a sudden burst of energy, panic seizing her again. "No, no please, please don't leave. Please." She reached for him and he leaned forward to touch a hand to her rosy cheeks.

"Christine, it will only be a matter of minutes. Damien will be up here soon with – "

"I don't want him, I don't want anyone else. I want you." She was nearly begging him now. He could hear the urgency in her voice and she began to cry again. "I want you to stay. Don't leave me again, please don't." She reached for him, attempting to wrap her arms around him as best she could. "I lost you once," she said, her voice tapering off into silence as if she was unable to finish.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her to him as he stroked her back. She rested her face against his shoulder, her mouth and nose pressed into the material of his suit jacket as she clung to him like a frightened child. He realized that, more or less, that was what she was in this moment.

"I don't want to lose you again," she murmured weakly after a brief silence, her voice muffled, breaking as she wept.

He sat stunned, his mind in a state of total disbelief. Had she… She had just said… She had said again. Again – she didn't want to lose him again. That meant she had lost him before. Could she be referring to…?

No. She was under the influence of a toxic substance that had thrown her into a state of delirium. For all he knew she was shifting in and out of reality – that had been proven to him moments ago in the kitchen. She probably thought he was Raoul, after all she'd mistaken Damien for him in her confusion. She was simply referring to his death when she'd spoken of losing him once. Nothing more.

"Erik, tell me you'll stay… Please." Her voice was small and weighed down with pain and fear.

He felt his heart swell. She'd said his name. She knew. She wasn't under any sort of illusion. She knew it was him, and she wanted him to stay with her anyway. She wanted him. Him, not anyone else, not even her boy.

There was still a part of him that felt a strong sense of uncertainty anyway, and his mind instantly resorted to making excuses as it usually did when something like this happened. She only wanted him with her because she was scared and wanted someone to be with her. She only wanted him there because he could give her answers.

She'd given him the ring back, she didn't want him. She couldn't want him, not after she'd done that. The gesture spoke too much. It didn't matter how much he wanted her, it didn't matter that regardless of how hurt he'd been several days before he would always keep her safe. It didn't matter that, despite how much he had tried not to show it as of late, he would always love her.

She wouldn't love him.

He wanted nothing more than to hear her say such words for so long, and now once she'd said them he wouldn't let himself believe her.

"There, there, hush now, sweet girl…" The most he could do was give himself this moment. He would have this time with her, then when she was well and in her right mind they would go back to the way they were. He turned his head to gently rest the side of his face against her curls, momentarily losing himself in the lovely scent that he'd gone without for so long. He closed his eyes. "I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

He heard her heave a soft sigh of relief, and she shifted to rest her head against his shoulder, turning to press her face into the crook of his neck, the scent of his cologne flirting with her senses and soothing her troubled mind. For a time they simply sat together, her relishing in the feeling of his arms around her, and him in grateful disbelief that he was so close to her, and that she wanted it that way.

There was an abrupt knock on the door. Erik opened his eyes. That would be Damien with the tea. Christine lifted her head groggily, her curls messy and her cheeks pink, staring over his shoulder at the door.

"Lie down, mon petit, be careful with your hands, we'll take care of them soon." She reluctantly did as she was told with a bit more coaxing, letting her head sink into the pillows. Erik stood and she made a move to sit up again. He noticed the alarmed look in her eyes and sat down again, reaching out to touch her face.

"I promise," he repeated. Even in her disoriented state she could tell that his tone was genuine.

Damien opened the door and peeked around it hesitantly, waiting for approval before entering. He didn't want to cross him, not while he was dealing with this. Erik turned and nodded for him to come in. He strode over to the bed, placing the cup of tea on the bedside table.

"Is that all, sir?"

"Go downstairs and find a bowl, a pair of tweezers, bandages and the jar of salve from the medicine cupboard, rags, and warm water." Damien nodded and left the room once more.

Erik reached for the cup of tea, blowing on it softly to cool it a bit before turning back to Christine. She sat up carefully with a bit of assistance, and Erik helped place several pillows behind her back against the headboard to keep her comfortable.

"What is it?" Her glance shifted from the cup to his face.

"It's only a simple cup of herbal tea, just to help you relax and calm your stomach."

She gave it another dubious glance as he held it in front of her before carefully leaning forward. He held it to her lips and helped her to drink it, taking small sips until it was gone.

Her eyelids began to feel heavy, and after shifting some of the pillows around she lied down once more. Erik carefully picked up one of her hands, examining the work that he was about to undertake. It would be no easy feat between trying to discern the glass splinters through all of the blood and making sure that he didn't miss any and leave them behind in her hands. He was glad he'd given her the tea – it would help her to fall into a comfortable sleep in which she wouldn't be able to feel much of anything and he would be able to work quickly without her squirming or flinching away.

He laid her hand back down tenderly, then moved to run his hand over her curls, stroking them gently. He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand, watching as her eyes slowly drifted closed. He turned and stood, heedful of how quickly he did in order to prevent waking her. He had just turned around - thinking that she'd fallen asleep - when he heard the gentle sound of her voice. "Erik?"

He turned back, silently cursing himself for apparently waking her all over again.

"Yes, my dear?"

She hesitated, not meeting his glance. He encouraged her softly.

"What is it, Christine?"

She swallowed dryly, and then looked up at him.

"…Will you sing to me?"

He stared at her for a moment, not exactly knowing how to respond. Slowly, he sat back down on the edge of the bed again. Her request had caught him off guard. He hadn't sung since their time at the Opera, he'd shut it out of his life. Until several days ago he hadn't even played, and look where that had gotten them.

"...Please?"

His heart melted, and he knew there was no denying her. She could have asked him to jump off a cliff into the sea with that delicate angel's voice and he would have done it.

"What would you like me to sing?"

She paused for a moment, her eyes fixed on the floor just off to the side of the bed, looking as though she was thinking intently about her choice as if she knew she had to make the proper selection on the first try.

"…The one I was singing a few days ago, the one that you played so beautifully." Her eyes were fixated on his face again. "Sing me Dalila's aria."

He froze. That song... The song that had brought them together and torn them apart within moments. While he felt a slight discomfort well up in his throat, he knew he couldn't say no, and not just because of the state she was in.

He hesitated before starting, his voice tender and reposeful. She felt every nerve in her body begin to relax, though whether it was the tea or the way his voice wrapped itself around her and held her she couldn't be certain. Her mind was still too foggy for reasoning. All she could be confident of was the soft melody that caressed her senses and the lull of the tenor voice that brought it to her, the tenor voice that she'd gone too long without hearing.

Even in their time apart she'd never forgotten the sound of it.

Her eyes never left him, though he could see how earnestly she was fighting to keep them open, not wanting to miss a single note. He reached up and brushed a stray curl from her face, then cupped her porcelain cheek with his hand. She leaned into the touch, and in that moment understood that she'd been given the blessing to fall asleep.

He couldn't believe that after two years and all of the grief they'd caused each other that she was lying before him, the perfect picture of the angel he'd always known her to be. She wasn't cringing away from his touch with disgust, she wasn't trying to hide herself from him.

She wasn't afraid.

It was more than he could have asked for.

Damien reached the top of the stairs carrying a tray full of the items that he'd been asked to retrieve. He was gaining confidence by the minute, assuring himself there was no way that Monsieur Durant knew what had happened to Christine. For all he knew she'd just had a bit too much wine and had lost her balance. He'd never find out, there was nothing to worry about. They would just put it behind them and go on with life as usual.

He assured himself that he would never be discovered. He'd already burned the notes and the napkin, and the bread was now gone… There was nothing that could pin the blame on him at all.

He stopped outside the door, raising his hand to knock but freezing just as he was about to do so. Someone was singing… A man. Was that…? It was Monsieur Durant. He was singing to her, and with an absolutely unbelievable instrument, the most incredible he'd ever heard.

He remembered back to the conversation he'd had with Christine about his musical talent in the days previous. She hadn't been lying when she'd spoken so highly of him.

He closed his eyes, listening silently. It was captivating – hypnotic, even.

As the melody faded away, he found himself almost unwilling to knock and break the silence. After waiting several minutes he raised his hand to knock carefully and quietly. He heard Monsieur Durant approaching the door and took a step back. The door was opened and he stepped in.

"Set that on the table and pull up a chair."

He did as he was told. Erik sat on the edge of the bed once more, taking the tweezers from the tray and delicately picking up her hand, turning it over to begin pulling the glass from her palms.

Damien sat by with the empty bowl, listening to the soft clink of every piece of bloodied glass as it was dropped inside. His eyes never left his hands, watching as he worked quickly but meticulously. Lovingly, even. He was so gentle with her, and upon finishing the first hand he must have examined it for at least several minutes before taking the rag and dipping it in the warm water, washing away the blood and scrutinizing it again. He knew that he wouldn't let anything slide by undetected.

The same routine was performed on her other hand, and after this he took each one and rubbed the salve over the surplus of cuts, then wrapped them in bandages. After replacing them tenderly to their original position, he moved to her legs, making quick work of the glass in her ankles. He pulled her stockings off and wiped the blood that was present there, rubbing some salve on them and tying on bandages.

He never spoke throughout the entire process, something that Damien found mildly unsettling. His confidence wasn't shaken though, and he firmly felt as though he would go back to the servant's house without a word being said about it.

As Erik carefully placed her bandaged ankles back down, Damien began to collect everything and place it on the tray again. He was mildly sickened by the amount of glass in the bowl. He hadn't expected it to be that much – and the sight of it only reminded him of how she had suffered from the flaw in his plan.

Erik carefully moved her to pull the blanket out from under her and cover her with it, then stepped away from the bed towards the window where he began to take his jacket off, draping it over a chair in the corner. He took off his vest and did the same, then his cravat.

Damien was walking towards the door when he finally spoke.

"_Coprinus atramentarius_." He turned from the window, his cravat in his hands. His eyes glared out at him from behind the mask, frozen on his form with the same sharp, cutting ferocity that he'd thought he'd seen earlier as they'd left the kitchen.

Damien said nothing and hoped that his face hadn't shown any sign of surprise, though a streak of horror shot down his spine. He turned and quickly left the room, closing the door tightly behind him. He nearly ran from the door, almost tripping over his own feet as he hurried down the stairs, wanting nothing more than to be out of his sight.


	16. Chapter 16

What was he going to do now?

He was situated at the small table in the servant's house, the moonlight crawling in through the cracks in the curtains. The only light in the room came from the orange glow of the burning cigarette he held between his fingers, the smoke trailing away and drifting upwards, dissipating into the air. He ran a hand through his hair, then rubbed his eyes before taking a long puff from his cigarette.

His plan had obviously failed, and it had failed severely. He'd poisoned the woman he wanted to be with instead of the man he was trying to do away with. Could he have done anything else to make things go any worse? He should have known, he should have considered the possibility. He'd been careless, and it had cost him both his secrecy and his sense of security.

Worse than that, he'd thought he had been so close to getting out without Monsieur Durant saying anything, truly believing that he hadn't known what was happening to her. Now that he'd been discovered he was out of options. Monsieur Durant had recognized the marks of poisoning; he'd been able to name it without even needing to look it up in one of his giant books.

Now it felt like he just kept all those books to mock people like himself, people who didn't know a thing about poisons or murdering people and thought themself brilliant the moment they found something that they thought no one else knew. It was unfortunate for Damien that his eagerness to display his apparent new plethora of knowledge on getting away with murder had gone so horribly wrong.

He released the smoke, watching as it flowed out of his mouth in twisting hills and slopes, curving like some sort of spineless creature. He put it out and placed his head in his hands.

He'd underestimated him – he'd underestimated him greatly. Apparently Monsieur Durant was no man to try and tamper with. That, or Damien just happened to have terrible luck. He was positive that it would have worked had he actually eaten it, but by some random chance he apparently hadn't eaten his breakfast that morning and it had gone to Christine instead.

What would he have done if something worse had happened to her? Damien suddenly found himself fearing for the worst, terrified to think of what Monsieur Durant had been thinking in that moment when he'd turned from the window. More than that he didn't want to know what he was thinking now.

Could he be planning something? There was no doubt that he understood that the poisoning had been intended for him, but then he had brought Christine into all of it, and through that he'd witnessed how much they apparently meant to each other. How rapidly Monsieur Durant had responded to the situation had only proven that he cared greatly for Christine's well-being, and the way he'd so gingerly handled her wounded hands and vulnerable position spoke even deeper.

He loved her.

The thought brought an entirely new nightmarish light to the situation. He'd almost killed the woman that his employer loved. He began to feel sick to his stomach, feeling an eerie sense that something terrible was about to befall him.

Surely he wouldn't do anything violent… He wasn't a violent man, was he?

He'd never known him to have violent outbursts for as long as Damien had worked for him. The worst he had ever seen of him had been the day that Christine had arrived.

It was obvious that he would no longer have employment. He hoped that was the worst of what Monsieur Durant could potentially be planning for him. Truthfully, he was amazed that he had even made it out of the room without Monsieur Durant telling him he would need to pack his things and leave immediately. Then again, he hadn't really given him the chance…

He lifted his head and leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling and releasing a long, fatigued sigh. After several seconds, his brows perked with realization.

He wouldn't give him the chance.

* * *

><p>The sun soon broke over the horizon, rising swiftly with each second. Erik stood near the window in only his shoes, trousers and shirt, several buttons undone near the collar and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He watched the light stream through and cast an angelic glow on her face, never ceasing its flattering of her lovely features.<p>

He hadn't slept, of course. Ironically, of all nights that he would have slept the previous would have been one in particular. However that wasn't an option when he needed to observe that nothing happened to her in her sleep as a result of the toxins wreaking havoc on her body. He'd stayed up through the night to monitor her symptoms – specifically her raging, irregular heartbeat - and wake her every few hours to give her water to prevent major dehydration. Only once had she become sick again, and several times she had complained of her hands stinging with pain, apparently not remembering that she'd commented on it an hour or so before. Each time he'd quietly reassured her and coaxed her back to sleep, knowing that it was all he could do until the toxins were out of her system.

Seeing her in such a state had been torturous, and knowing that he couldn't help her was even worse. It was one thing be tormented by having her back in his life after going without her, but it was another thing entirely to see her as a bloodied, frightened, disoriented mess that didn't know what was happening to her every second, thinking that she was ultimately about to die and knowing that there was absolutely nothing else that he could do but try to keep her calm and tell her everything would be all right. He never wanted to witness her undergoing that kind of trauma again, especially when it was at the expense of a foolish man's attempt to murder _him_, knowing that she was never supposed to be brought into it at all.

It hadn't taken him long to figure out who had been behind it. After all, he only had two options and he knew – or at least liked to assume – that Christine didn't have the nerve to do such a thing. He liked to think she wouldn't betray him in such a way. The suspicion had been confirmed when he'd seen the change in his eyes the moment he'd mentioned the name of the mushroom. He'd seen the flash of fear that tore through his body and how hastily he'd removed himself from the room. It only lead him to one conclusion – he'd planted the mushrooms in the bread with the intention that it would only eliminate him and would do so without a trace, he hadn't accounted for the fact that Christine could have gotten her hands on it just as easily. He'd stupidly attempted to murder one and had inadvertently caused great pain to another.

Perhaps that was what was more agonizing than anything else, arguably more than having to witness her suffering. Had he known the moment that she brought the tainted food into the room that it was meant for him he would have eaten it. Had he known that it had been in the bread and that he could have eaten it and prevented her from unknowingly inflicting such distress upon herself he would have done so in a heartbeat. His experience with poisons had made him resistant to virtually anything, and while he might have experienced mild symptoms it would have been nothing like what she had undergone.

He was now a dead man walking, and Erik would thoroughly enjoy plotting his demise. He'd been arrogant without reason, and it had put Christine in a reasonable amount of peril, something that Erik found to be an unforgiveable crime. He wouldn't be getting away with much.

To be frank, he wouldn't be getting away at all.

No matter how long it took him, he would ensure that he understood that no one attempted to slay the Angel of Death or, more importantly, harmed his Christine, and walked away to tell of it. But how to do it? He would wait, he would think through all of his techniques and make note of the most excruciatingly wretched one. He would give him time to worry. He would let him squirm and count the days, thinking of each as a blessing until coming upon the particular day that he wouldn't get to add to the end of the list.

He moved from the window to sit down in the chair upon which he'd laid his jacket and other various pieces of attire the night before, his eyes still protectively remaining on her form.

Soon enough he felt sleep begin to tempt him, pulling at his eyelids and taunting him, whispering for him to just close his eyes for a few seconds, assuring him that it wouldn't matter. She would still be asleep when he opened them again. Besides, his other senses were alert enough that he would be able to detect any movement or trouble should it occur. He just needed to rest his aching eyes for a few minutes. Slowly he leaned back in the chair, his elbow propped on the arm and his forehead resting against his hand. He released a soft sigh, feeling any and all tension fade away with it. Just resting his eyes, no harm in that, he wouldn't let himself fall asleep…

It couldn't have been long that he'd been sitting like that when Christine's eyes reluctantly opened, closing again tightly at the sight of the bright sunlight invading her overly sensitive senses. There was still a dull ache in her head, and she reached up to touch it she discovered the bandages on her hands that throbbed faintly underneath, sore and irritated as if she'd pricked herself with the needle one too many times while sewing a hem.

She sat up, feeling the all too vivid reality of the head rush that came with doing so. After taking a moment to let her head clear she rubbed her eyes with the backs of her hands, then began to look around, not recognizing where she sat. She soon deduced that she was probably in the main house, though why she was here was not apparent to her. She reasoned that it probably had something to do with her seemingly injured hands and the slight sickness that she felt. It was a lovely room, nonetheless. The walls were a soft peach color, the curtains white, and the various pieces of furniture were made of dark mahogany. She ran her fingers over the lovely stitching in the quilt that covered her before glancing up once more and leaning forward slightly to peer out the window at what she could see from where she was.

Her eyes moved along the wall and soon found the sight of Erik sitting in the chair, apparently sleeping. Funny, she didn't know that he actually did that now. She looked about her and contemplated getting up, but didn't know if that would be such a bright idea when she seemed to feel light headed each time she moved too quickly where she currently sat.

"Erik?"

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, and somewhere within his fragile state of unconsciousness his mind tried to tell him that someone was saying his name, but his eyes pleaded for him to ignore it and he listened, disregarding the sound of the honeyed voice that called timidly to him.

"…Erik?"

This time the voice reached some deeper level of his psyche, relaying to him that she was awake and needed him, which caused a brief bout of tension to flood his body as he felt himself jump awake with a start, blinking several times to try and throw his mind into legitimate sense of clarity. His neck straightened and brought his head back to its natural position, feeling the strain of the stiff muscles scolding him for sleeping in such a position. His elbow remained on the arm of the chair, still upright as if it would be there in case he should choose to rest his head there and fall asleep again.

"Hm? What is it, my dear?"

He took in her appearance as she sat in the bed, the vividly brilliant sunlight shining brightly on her milk white skin and through her disheveled curls, illuminating every hue and creating a messy, radiant halo about her face. Even in the early hours of the morning she was the perfect picture of an angel, the light giving her a divine, saintly appearance that was so appropriate for her.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I should have let you sleep," she uttered sheepishly. Well, too late now, he thought. He was already awake, any apology concerning letting him sleep seemed rather backhanded at this point.

"That's quite all right my dear," he responded, running a hand over his hair before standing and moving to the bed, sitting down on the edge near her, wanting to reach out and run a hand over her curls but suddenly feeling hesitant and somewhat intimidated. She seemed as though the fog had lifted off her mind, and she was no longer the frightened girl clinging to him for comfort like she'd been the night before.

The thought rattled his self-assurance. Now that she had a grasp on her mind again, would she still feel the same? She'd known who he was the night before, but had she clung to him so desperately because she'd wanted him or was it just because she needed something secure in the midst of her faculty of reality crumbling around her?

"Christine," he began, keeping his voice low and steady, his eyes fixed on the quilt and not her face, "do you remember anything that happened last night?" His eyes moved to her face, waiting for her response.

Her gaze fell from his face, her brow knitting in concentration. She looked as thought she was very nearly willing the information to come back to her.

"I… I remember some of it." She swallowed dryly and licked her lips. He reached for the glass of water, handing it to her and watching as she sipped it carefully.

"How much of it can you confidently recall?" She removed the glass from her lips and held it carefully in her bandaged hands.

"Falling, I remember falling on the floor… And I remember you running into the room. I remember being frightened." She paused, struggling to pull more of the memories from the dust that they were hidden under. She held the cup to her lips again and drank the rest of the water. "I remember you bringing me up here, and I remember drinking the tea you gave me."

"Is that all?" She met his gaze but didn't answer. He felt the knot of disappointment forming in his chest. "Allow me to refill that for you." She passed him the cup and he stood, making his way towards the door.

"I remember you singing to me," she said softly. He stopped at the door with one hand on the knob, his back to her. "I remember that you held me, I remember the smell of your cologne." She looked down at her hands as his grip tightened on the door handle.

"I remember how safe you made me feel."

He turned to look at her over his shoulder, meeting her gaze as she sat on the bed staring back at him. He slowly turned from the door and walked back, sitting down again, holding the cup in his hands and fidgeting with it, not meeting her gaze.

Inside him somewhere there was a spark of satisfaction that she'd been able to remember such things, a small ember that was determined to burn regardless of the anxiety and deafening self-hatred that worked so hard to put it out.

They sat in silence for several minutes until she finally spoke.

"Erik?"

He looked up.

"What happened to me?"

He opened his mouth to speak, hesitating as he tried to find the words. How was he supposed to explain this to her?

"The bread you made yesterday, do you remember that, Christine?" She nodded. "Damien… He put something in the bread." Her eyes widened visibly. "He put it there for me, to try and kill me, I assume." Her hand flew to her mouth, her face looking distressed. "He must have known that I had eaten the food you brought me that morning. He apparently didn't take into account that you might have ended up eating it instead." He wouldn't get into the major logistics of how the poison worked or all of the physical symptoms, she didn't need to know something that would just make her even more horrified by what had happened to her body.

She sat stunned in a state of complete and utter disbelief. Damien, someone who – though he made her uncomfortable – had been kind to her. He'd been… well, he hadn't exactly been a friend, by any means. He'd always made her uncomfortable and she'd never trusted him fully. But she'd never thought that he would be capable of trying to kill someone, let alone the man who had employed him for so long and had given him such security in his job.

"I should have known, Christine, I – "

"You couldn't have." Her voice was rather abrupt and silenced him immediately. How could he have known that he'd poisoned the bread? She hadn't even known and she'd baked it! She knew he was far more experienced when it came to such things. "I won't allow you to blame yourself for it."

She looked down at her hands, and upon seeing them suddenly seemed to remember that they were in bandages for reasons she didn't know. She held them up with a helpless look on her face, silently asking for an answer.

"You said you remembered falling, yes?" She nodded. "You took some dishes down with you, and when you tried to stand you fell back into the glass." Her face contorted into a horrified expression and tears welled in her eyes. He reached out and took both of her hands gently in his. "After you fell asleep I picked all of the glass out and cleaned the blood away."

Her head had tilted to the side by the slightest degree, staring at him and feeling a new overwhelming sense of shame. To think that just a few days ago she'd unleashed a flood of emotions on him, virtually alienating him and rejecting him all over again. Even after she'd acted so childish and selfish he'd cared for her and ensured that she was safe. He'd acted selflessly when she hadn't deserved it in the slightest.

She tore her gaze away, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. There was a new sense of tension, something highly uncomfortable between the two of them. She understood the error of her ways, and while he disliked knowing that she was feeling so regretful there was a part of him that felt it to be relatively justified. If she'd known the impact of her actions…

He didn't want to think back to it. He felt the discomfort grow within him and suddenly felt consumed by the lingering awkwardness that had developed between the two of them. He cleared his throat and stood once more.

"I'll go downstairs and get you more water and some breakfast, if you would like it." She nodded. "Right. I will be back shortly."

He left the room, closing the door behind him and descending the stairs. He entered the kitchen and filled the glass from the pitcher of water on the table, then set it down next to it and began to fill a plate with some fruit. He glanced out the window, his eyes taking in the sight of the servant's house, the door slightly ajar.

No, he wouldn't have…

Slowly, he abandoned his task and walked out the back door down the small path to the house. He opened the door the rest of the way and stared inside before stepping in quietly, listening. There was no one there. He rummaged through the house, opening every door but finding nothing, no one.

Meanwhile, Christine had lied back in the bed, staring up at the ceiling with her mind lost to thought. She ran over everything from her disbelief at the previous night's events to her current situation. Damien, someone who she'd never suspect to try to commit such an atrocious act, had attempted to murder Erik. Even now, knowing that her was perfectly all right and was just downstairs, the thought made her heart twist with uneasiness.

What would she have done if he'd actually been killed? She would have nothing left, absolutely nothing. She would be on her own again and starving in the streets, trying to make her living in a dress shop when moments before she'd been living a luxurious life of comfort.

Every shred of her past would have been gone, every last piece of anything that she loved.

Her mind froze.

Loved. She'd used the word loved.

She quickly redirected her thoughts.

What had compelled him to take care of her? He'd protected her, and he was still taking care of her. He was still watching over her after she'd behaved so horribly to him. She deserved none of his kindness as far as she was concerned, and yet he'd shown it. He'd comforted her, he'd helped her. He'd taken the time to pluck every single shard of glass from her hands when he could have made Damien do it instead.

He'd done so because he was an adult, and she'd proven that she was still just a stupid child.

She wasn't so grown up after all.

She sighed and closed her eyes, suddenly feeling drained and wishing to go back to sleep.

It was on the on the bridge between unconsciousness and reality when the sound of the door slamming in the kitchen forced her eyes open with a start, just in time to hear the singing of glass shattering against the wall with a thunderous roar.


	17. Chapter 17

She set the half-eaten plate down on the bedside table with a soft clink and carefully wiped her mouth with the back of her bandaged hand. A few hours before he'd silently brought her a plate of apple slices and a fresh cup of water, then stalked out just as silently and closed the door behind him a bit too forcefully. Ever since she'd been picking at the fruit, only eating one or two slices at a time before setting it back down. Every now and then she'd look over to see if the apples had managed to become any more brown with the time that had passed. At least it gave her something to do while she sat by herself with no one to talk to. She reached for the cup, drinking the rest and placing it back on the table before leaning back against the pillows that were propped between her and the headboard of the bed.

He'd insisted that she stay in bed, something that was hard for someone like Christine. Many times she'd considered disobeying him to go sit at the desk and write something, or to find a book to read. It wasn't that she didn't trust what he told her, she was aware that he knew far more than she did about recovering from such ailments. It was simply that she couldn't stand having to remain in the same place for so long.

Christine preferred to avoid being idle – being forced to remain in bed forced her to confront her thoughts, especially the thoughts that she shut away and hid from herself. It had been discouraging enough when she'd been married to Raoul and the worst thoughts she'd had to avoid were those of the horrors from the Opera, but now… Now there were entirely new horrors that she had to keep herself from thinking of.

Raoul's death was one of them. It was the most prominent of them, at least, and it was one that attempted to break free from its domineering shackles that kept it so well suppressed. The only way she'd allowed herself to cope with his absence had been by distracting herself so she wouldn't be given time to think about it. From day one she'd implemented the plan on herself, and it had worked so far. She wasn't about to let it fail. She quickly threw the thoughts away lest they annihilate her relatively reasonable emotional state. The last thing she wanted was for Erik to find her weeping in her bed over the loss of her husband.

No, scratch that. The last thing she wanted was to have to explain herself to Erik after he found her like that.

A soft sigh fell from her lips and her eyes moved to the bay window, wishing that she could at least be over there where she could look out and observe something, even if it was simply watching the grass grow. It would be better than having to sit in one place where the only thing she could watch was the apples browning on her plate, or ceiling or the walls, or at best the shapes of the stitching in her quilt as she tried to create pictures out of them.

She leaned forward from her place on the bed, attempting to peer out the window from where she was. The most she could see was the bright glare of the sun as it violated her eyes, but she knew that if she could simply sit in the window seat she could see out without a problem. She contemplated standing and attempting to make her way over, but was stopped as the door opened and Erik appeared from behind it.

"How are you feeling? Do you need anything?" His voice lacked the gentle tenderness that he'd used with her before. It sounded tenser, more business-like. She could tell that his temper was essentially volatile at this point as it was so often after something had set him off, even if he was attempting to be calm. Whatever had provoked him – she still wasn't aware of what it was, he hadn't told her – was still gnawing at his mind and crawling under his skin to eat away at him.

"I feel as fine as one could be under such circumstances," she replied, brushing a few curls away from her face. He stepped further into the room and moved to the bed, adjusting some of the pillows for her. "I've only felt sick once or twice."

"Good. You seem to be doing better. The symptoms are only supposed to last several hours, so you've slept through the worst of it." He turned from her and took the empty cup of water with the intent to fill it again. He was keeping her on a heavy regime of fluids and simple food until her body was capable of handling anything more complex. He turned away, his voice dark and hinting at his vexed state. "But if he put as much in the bread as I suspect he did, and considering how much you ate, you'll need to stay in bed for at least another day until the rest of the toxins are flushed from your system."

Her face fell. It looked as if she would be doing a great deal of thinking, then, if that were the case.

"Are you all right?" She looked up, immediately recovering, not wanting to give him any ideas.

"Yes." She looked away again and Erik began towards the door. Christine gave one final glance to the window before looking back to him and hastily asking, "Erik? May I sit in the window and look outside?"

He paused just before the door.

"No." She pursed her lips, watching as he reached for the handle to leave.

"Why not?" This stopped him, and she could tell that she was beginning to rub him the wrong way, but it did little to dissuade her from wanting an answer.

"You are much to weak to be out of bed. It is imperative that you allow your body to regain its strength, lest you just become even more ill."

"But Erik, I feel – "

"No, Christine. Please just stay where you are."

"Erik, I'll be fine, I – "

"Stay in bed, Christine." There was no arguing with his tone, and with that, he left.

She smirked, staring after him before turning to look at the window once more as the curtains performed delicate pirouettes atop the breeze, infinitely frustrated by her current situation and his excessively adamant attitude.

She certainly didn't feel weak, and her head felt better. Besides, he'd even told her that she seemed to be doing better. There was absolutely no reason that she couldn't sit in the window and watch the little rabbits and birds having the time of their lives outside. How different was sitting in bed compared to sitting in a window? She would still be relaxing and not using up what was left of her strength.

More than that, who was it that was ultimately in control of her actions? She was her own person, not his. He wasn't her father, he was no longer her teacher, and he certainly wasn't her husband.

She felt her stomach jump and dance at the thought, a moment of clarity surfacing in the midst of her discontentment. Husband… He almost had been, and now… No, that was absurd. She tried to tell herself that it was merely the nausea and nothing more.

Just as she thought to take her opportunity the doorknob turned and Erik appeared once more with the replenished cup of water. Her cheeks reddened at the sight of him, her mind still stuck on her previous thought, and she quickly shifted her gaze away.

"Be sure to drink this, you need to stay hydrated." He moved to the door, opening it and turning back to her before he left. "I'll be just down the hall in the study if you need anything else." She felt that this was something that was supposed to be comforting, however he certainly hadn't made it sound very comforting.

"Erik, are you sure that I can't sit by the window?"

"Call for me when you've finished that and I'll fetch you more."

He left once more, and she waited several seconds until she heard his footsteps fade away and the sound of a door open and click as it closed down the hall.

His utter disregard for her question was both an answer and a warning of sorts. She was trying his patience one too many times, and she knew that if she crossed him once more she would most certainly unleash the anger that resided so near to the surface, always ready to jump out the moment something pushed the wrong button.

She lied back on the bed, her curls splayed around her on the pillow. She sighed and closed her eyes, feeling utterly damned to a life of bed-ridden confinement.

* * *

><p>Erik stood at the window in the study, staring through the world outside and into another, one where he was carrying out the perfect murder of his currently missing butler.<p>

The spineless coward, fleeing the moment he had to face the consequences of his actions. But was that really what had infuriated him about the entire situation? He knew it wasn't, if that had been the case he would have gone after him already. No, he wasn't irate because he'd left. He was beside himself with rage because he'd let him slip between his fingers so easily. It was almost as if he'd let him win.

After having let himself lose the most important battle of all two years ago in the recesses of the Opera, there was one thing that Erik no longer allowed: other people winning where he could have.

He needed a way to gather information, to make sure that he hadn't already fled the city. He needed someone to watch him since he couldn't. Obviously he would have done it himself, but with Christine ill he couldn't leave, and even if she'd been well he wouldn't have left her by herself in such an isolated part of the country. If something happened to her… There were too many risks involved, and he left it at that.

He sighed and began to pace, filing through the people in his mind that he could trust. It didn't take him long to create a list when there were only two or three people on it.

There was Christine, obviously, but she was in no condition to do such things, and besides that there was the obvious reason that he would never purposefully put her into a situation that could prove dangerous for her.

Then there were the Girys, but he hadn't made contact with them for quite a while. Surely they'd be shocked if they suddenly received a letter from him asking such a ridiculous favor. Besides that, the young one probably wouldn't be able to keep her mouth shut long enough to conceal such a secret, and her mother would be horrified by his intentions.

That only left one option.

Nadir.

* * *

><p>Meanwhile in her bedroom, Christine opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, deciding with firm finality that she simply couldn't bring herself to fix her eyes upon it one more time.<p>

She sat up carefully, glancing out the window. She heard the sound of a bird singing outside and instantly felt the jealousy swell within her breast, wishing that she could be that bird flying free and unharnessed against the breeze.

Her brow arched, a sly smirk appearing on her face.

Well, if she couldn't be the bird, she would just have to settle for sitting in the window watching it, regardless of what Erik thought. Besides, a bit of fresh air would be good for her. Surely he wouldn't be so angry about it if it proved to be beneficial for her. With luck she would merely sit at the window for a few minutes and then move back to the bed before he would even know that she'd moved the bedding.

She looked to the door, listening for several seconds to make sure that he wasn't currently walking towards her room. Having him walk in on her in the middle of her treacherous act of treason against his word would certainly be most unfortunate.

Her gaze shifted to the window once more, and she flung back the blankets, carefully swinging her legs over the side. She took a deep breath, her hands clutching the linens. If she was so certain that she was capable of this, why was she feeling so nervous? Perhaps it was because she knew that she could be caught even if she felt that she could pull it off, and his mood was already less than amiable which was an entirely different, unappealing aspect of the entire thing. But if she didn't go now, she wouldn't have a chance and would be resigned to her bed for the rest of today and the entire day tomorrow. Trying to imagine spending two days in the same spot was unbearable.

She quieted her nerves and slowly pushed herself off the bed and took a step, instantly assaulted by a wave of vertigo, her legs unable to support her as she fell to the floor with a cry of surprise. She landed on her hands, immediately gritting her teeth with a hiss as she felt the searing burn of pain that flew up her arms. She attempted to push herself up, but found that her legs wouldn't support her.

Damn it all to hell, he'd been right after all.

Erik heard the faint sound from the study and turned from the letter that he'd been writing to Nadir. That sound only could have meant one thing, and if he knew her as well as he thought he did then he didn't have to guess at what had happened. He felt his temper beginning to boil.

He opened the door and stalked down the hall, reaching her door and opening it with commanding purpose. His eyes moved to her frame on the floor as she tried to pull herself onto the bed. Her eyes were frozen on him.

"Foolish girl," he spat, the underlying frustration all too evident in his voice, "will she never learn?"

He all but stormed over and hoisted her up onto the bed, planting her back under the blankets, arranging her like she was a doll that he was tired of having to put back on the shelf. His voice remained low in volume, however she could feel the emotion bubbling underneath, brewing slowly and waiting to overflow.

"Erik tells her to do one thing and she does another, never listening! She never has, she never will!"

This was a bad sign. She had learned from experience that any time he referred to himself in third person that she'd managed to elicit unbridled emotion. He only spoke that way when he was completely lost to hysterical feeling, just as it had been when he'd first "welcomed" her to his home, or when she'd ripped his mask from his face the first time, or when he'd forced an answer out of her that night below the Opera.

"I'm sorry, Erik, I just wanted – " Her voice was not weak, but bold and confident in an attempt to reason with him. She wasn't about to let him think she was merely going to submit to his scolding without trying to defend herself. However, as he cut her off it was hard to deny the fact that her spirits took a blow.

"No! Does Christine not understand that in her current state it does not matter what she wants? Does Christine not understand that what happened to her is very serious and that Erik is doing his best to take care of her and take care of his other business at the same time?"

"Erik, if you have things to take care of couldn't you ask – "

"Who? Ask who, _Damien_?" She knew she'd crossed the line now. "Why on earth would Erik allow Damien - the man who almost killed his Christine and then fled like a gutless coward - to take care of her?"

She sat silent, staring at him in shock. She hadn't known… That was obviously what had made him so angry. Damien, who'd tried to kill him and then accidentally made her ill instead, had disappeared. He'd made his escape.

His voice fell to a soft, bitter jeer.

"Come, Christine, tell Erik. Why would he do that?"

However, she wasn't entirely sure if she was more shocked at Damien's flight or the fact that he'd slipped – he'd called her _his _Christine, something he hadn't done since their relationship had been at its most intimate and possessive at the Opera. It gave her evidence that she still meant something to him. Now she knew that he hadn't just taken care of her in her time of vulnerability because it had been the proper thing to do.

It had been because, to some extent that she couldn't accurately measure, he still treasured her the way he had two years ago.

It made her heart skip, and her cheeks flushed.

She finally forced her voice into action, stumbling for words at first, her former bold confidence now shaken.

"I… I didn't know."

Something about what she'd said had reached him; he was beginning to come down from his tirade of anger that he'd unleashed on her. He sighed and ran his hand over his hair, beginning to pace. She understood that – hopefully – he hadn't truly been angry at her, she had just been the straw that broke the camel's back, so to say, and all his aggravation with Damien had been thrust at her.

"I'm sorry, Erik, if I had known I wouldn't have – "

"I know," he sighed again and dropped his hand to his side, turning to her, "I know."

They sat in awkward silence for some unspoken amount of time. She fingered the edge of the quilt, chewing her lip and attempting to think of something to say. When she finally spoke, she didn't meet his gaze.

"Is that why… this morning…?"

"…Yes. Yes, our set of cups lost one of their own to my temper this morning." He shook his head and placed hands on his hips as he began to pace once more. "I'm sure the rest of them are sitting in the cupboard cowering and rattling in fear, dreading the moment that I will inevitably walk back into the room."

There was a pause and she looked at him, her mind somewhat boggled. Had he really just said that? Did he realize the absurdity of that statement?

This sparked something in Christine and she began to giggle, her hysterics slowly escalating with every second. Something in the way he'd said that had been undeniably amusing, and the more she thought about it the funnier it became. At one point she attempted to stop laughing and managed to calm herself a tad, only to erupt with laughter all over again seconds later. She was all but crying with laughter, an unbelievably radiant smile on her face.

He stared at her in confusion. Why on earth was she laughing? Had he not been reprimanding her mere minutes ago? Could she not see that he was upset? This seemed to be the absolute display of complete and utter disregard for the fact that he was in no mood to listen to someone else's glee.

And yet… There was something infectious about it. There was something infectious about being around her, about seeing her happy… While he couldn't bring himself to laugh with her, he did feel himself suppressing a grin at the sight. Earlier she'd been stubborn and irritated, and now she was glowing with laughter, her being overflowing with apparent delight. She looked more beautiful in that moment than she ever had, and for once he imagined what she might have looked like one day had she truly become his living wife. The days when they would have had their house in the country and took walks through the city on Sundays like every other couple. Enchanting and divine – sublime, an unearthly beauty that was committed to him, a beauty that other men envied him for.

It reminded him of all the reasons that he loved her so dearly.

It was truly intoxicating - the sound of her laughter. It was all the sounds in the world that he loved. It was like music. Christine's happiness had often had that effect on him, especially when all he had wanted was to be able to make her happy.

The realization slowly crept through him. She was happy because of something he'd done. Not something that the Angel of Music had done, not something that the illusion had done. She was happy because of something that he – Erik, the man – had done.

He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair once more, watching as she slowly calmed herself.

"I'm sorry," she giggled again, "I know you're probably not happy with me for laughing while you're not in the mood, but – "

"No," he began quietly, his face still unsmiling as he strode slowly over to her. If anything he sounded more tired of having to deal with this situation and wanted to retreat to his solitary confinement once more. If only she'd known that inside him her elation was slowly running its course through his veins, momentarily distracting him from his anger. "I'm pleased to see your humor in excellent condition."

She blushed slightly and attempted to hide her smile, meeting his gaze briefly before looking away, suddenly somewhat shy, feeling the slight awkwardness brewing in the pit of her stomach amongst her entertaining bliss. Or was that just her feeling sick again? She didn't have time to think about it and attempt to make the distinction, as her attention was diverted as he took her hands. She was caught off guard and was now curious as to what he was doing. With such a stern disposition, she never saw it coming.

"Come, let's get you over to the window."


	18. Chapter 18

After being allowed to sit in the window her requests for the rest of the day had been anything but demanding. He'd noticed how much more reasonable her mood had become after that moment, and in result he'd been much more willing to agree when she'd asked for a book to read, and wasn't frustrated after he'd come in several minutes later to find she'd abandoned it because she couldn't quite keep the words from whirling around in front of her just yet. Trying to focus too intently on something such as print on a page had thus proven itself to be impossible for now.

The hours faded away into nothingness and she was wide awake to greet twilight, the sky full of various hues of orange and pink. The birds slowly stopped their singing and all of the other creatures she'd contented herself with had retreated to their respected homes, leaving her to merely sit in the window seat staring out at the sky, watching the sun as it slowly sank lower and lower towards the horizon.

She was gripped by a sudden sense of nostalgia, wishing that Raoul were there to share it with her. There were many things that she wished she could still share with Raoul only to understand the permanent situation she found herself in. Sunsets were one of them. They'd often watched the sunset together, standing on the balcony outside their bedroom and merely basking in the feeling of being in the other's company. No longer could she share such an experience with him ever again, and to some extent she found the fiery colors of the sky reminding her all to well of the blazing flames that had taken him from her that night. She could felt a stab at her heart, biting her lip as she tried to keep herself from dwelling on her loss.

She reached up to touch a hand to the glass, the cold barrier between her and the outside world just as real as the life and death that had separated her from so many loved ones. Her father, Raoul… Even in her own "death" she'd lost people, connections that were completely severed and irreparable because she'd been too frightened to step forward and confront her troubles. She'd been unwilling to accept her burdens and because of it she'd lost almost everything. Too many people she'd lost to death and its tricks only to be left alone and helpless, trying to find her way in the dark without a candle to guide her.

Each time she'd been rescued, and ironically enough it had been by the same man whether she acknowledged it as salvation or not.

Death had a funny way of leading her back to him, even if it was indirectly. With the loss of her father she'd ended up at the Opera where their story began and unraveled, and with Raoul's death she'd been returned to him like a lost possession that had suddenly been discovered after an endless amount of searching.

Ever since he'd re-entered her life her emotions had been in an uproar, her heart always screaming at her but her mind surprisingly silent. It gave her no direction, no instructions on what to do or where to go. It had long since given up the attempts it had always made to try and tell her to flee any time she was with him, apparently deeming it useless. But now, with her heart in charge, she was more confused than she'd ever been.

Funny, how once she had no choice she was still unable to make up her mind. So many things her heart told her that her mind was unwilling to reinforce. It left her second-guessing, unsure of each decision that she tried to think through.

Nothing made sense, yet everything made perfect sense.

"Do you always wait for your dinner to grow cold before you eat it?"

She smiled sadly to herself and turned from the window to look at him. It wasn't even possible to be alarmed at the sudden sound of his voice, she'd long since grown accustomed to his nonchalantly unannounced appearances.

He'd been referring to the small bowl of broth that he'd brought her earlier. She'd been too distracted to eat it, her appetite anything but active. He sauntered to the window seat and sat down with her, watching her as her eyes roamed the horizon like an animal inside a cage, dreaming of the outside world.

He knew this time that it wasn't him that was holding her captive – she had every possibility to leave and she hadn't taken it. There was something inside her that wrapped around her and confined her innermost being, refusing to let it go. Something was clinging to her with the intent of always holding her down, never letting her free.

She was imprisoning herself.

"It's a beautiful sunset tonight," she said quietly, having turned back to the window. Her hand remained on the glass as if holding it there was like truly touching the watercolor sky, as if it would free her of whatever burden was weighing on her mind. He wanted to reach out and take it, to reassure her and shield her from whatever it was that was closing in on her.

He could only assume that it was her boy, the grief becoming real now that she had time to think about it and comprehend his missing presence beside her. She was lonely, yearning for her lost lover. The lost look in her eyes had said it all, proving that she'd regressed to a different time, a time when he'd been alive and well and sitting next to her watching the sky as it faded from pink to purple to blue, and pointing out the stars as each one appeared in the sky.

"Christine," he began softly, his mellow voice forming the name so sweetly that she almost began weeping right then, "what happened that night?"

He saw her lip quiver as she bit it in an attempt to keep her composure. He saw the tears well in her eyes, and how she struggled to keep her face straight and unfeeling with no luck. He saw her crumble, her fingers curling against the glass as if she was trying to hold onto something that only she could see.

She broke, and reluctantly tore her eyes from the sunset, holding her face with the hand that wasn't against the glass, weeping quietly as her resolve to keep her composure melted away, revealing the woman of sorrow that had been hidden from him until this point.

She'd hidden it from everyone because she'd had to, she hadn't been given proper time to truly grieve and accept her loss, and she'd handled it with irrefutable sophistication, holding herself together until she couldn't any longer. She'd been less of a child than he'd previously assumed, and he'd given her less credit than she deserved.

He reached out and hesitantly placed a hand on her shoulder, and she turned from the window to bury herself in his arms, clinging to him hopelessly and pressing her face into the crook of his neck.

"There was so much smoke… It was everywhere," she managed to utter, her voice weak and tense from crying. "He was in there…" An entirely new level of weeping commenced and her small body shook as he held her, stroking her back in a fruitless attempt to comfort her.

She leaned away from him, her tortured, wet eyes staring up back into his. He knew who those tears were for, and he could feel his heart breaking in response to her all too evident affection for the boy. He wasn't sure what pained him more, seeing her cry so pitifully and being unable to console her or having to attempt to empathize with her love for her late husband, the man who had once been his ultimate rival.

"I… I got out without being hurt… but he… he was in there, and he was gone, Erik… He was gone… and…" Her voice trailed off, her eyes full of horror as she remembered how utterly helpless she had been that night. "And there was nothing I could do…" She was gasping for breath between sobs, her eyes wide as if the realization was suddenly dawning on her that nothing she could have done would have saved him, as if she had been transported back in time to that night and was watching it happen all over again. Now there was nothing that she could do to bring him back. "I should have tried to help him…"

"But you couldn't, Christine, you couldn't."

"That doesn't change the fact that I should have tried, Erik!" She was very nearly yelling at him, her voice thick with panicked distress. Every thought that passed through her mind was fleeting and frenzied, her mind having succumbed to a severe bout of anxiety. She couldn't shake the panic from her body, trembling and fighting for breath.

His hand stroked her hair, holding her to him and rocking her gently as one would an upset child. While he couldn't say that he felt an extreme sense of grief over the man's death, seeing her suffer so was entirely different story.

"Christine, you mustn't blame yourself," he pulled her away from him, looking into her eyes. "You said yourself there was nothing you could do."

"I can't help it, Erik, I just… I can't…"

She looked away, unable to meet his gaze for fear that her eyes would show her lack of desire to try to fix herself and it would only end up disappointing him. It seemed to be a skilled she'd perfected the moment she'd shrouded herself within the news of her death. Every loved one that she'd re-encountered from that point on had first accepted her with a sense of estrangement and betrayal. Her eyes traveled across the expanse of the darkening sky, almost as if she was trying to look for some sort of sign from Raoul himself to tell her that she should listen to him.

What made her so unwavering in feeling that she needed some sort of validation from Raoul to end her grieving and stop feeling so… _responsible _for what had happened? It was validation that she was never going to get. How much longer was she going to berate herself?

"I don't know why I ran, why I hid…" His eyes never left her face, watching as her gaze wandered over the sky. "I… I was afraid, I didn't know what to do, so I ran." She placed her hands over her eyes, an entirely new set of tears threatening to spill. "I didn't want to face it, I couldn't…"

He took her hands from her face and, without thinking, brought them to his mouth. He pressed his lips gently to the back of each, wishing it were her smooth skin against his mouth instead of the coarse bandages. He looked up at her, her eyes locked on him. She pulled one hand from his to place it on his face, her thumb stroking the false cheek of his mask, soon falling to the base of his neck and resting there.

Perhaps he was lost to any sense of reason, or the negative voice in his head had silenced itself for the time being, for he then leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead, his hand moving to weave into her curls. She closed her eyes, tears still escaping and flowing down her cheeks, savoring the feeling of his lips against her skin, a sensation that she'd stopped desiring long ago when she'd felt that she'd never have the opportunity to enjoy it again.

In that moment all she desired was to be close to him, to feel his body against her own and know that he she would find comfort and warmth in his embrace. She wanted him with her.

"I think you've confronted it enough, my dear," he murmured against her skin, feeling his own sorrow begin to swell the longer he had to comfort her over the loss of her young lover. "Your weary heart needs a rest." His hand fell from her curls to her cheek, gently gracing it with the back of his hand, watching as she leaned into his touch, only to look disappointed when he pulled it away.

She held her arms in front of her again and he took her into his, running a hand over her curls and simply holding her, the proximity slowly becoming more real to each of them as her misery concealed itself once more. She was so close, and so warm and soft… He longed to hold her for eternity, knowing that he could touch her and she wouldn't shrink away, knowing that he could love her without fear of losing her.

His longing for her became too real all too soon, and he swiftly pulled away from her for fear of what being so close would do to him if he remained there for much longer.

"You need sleep, Christine."

He took her hands in his again, and she looked down at them. She admired the way his enveloped hers, encasing them so securely. As dangerous as she knew he was, he always had a strange way of making her feel so undeniably safe.

She missed this. She'd missed having him in her life. Her eyes traveled up to meet his, the golden hue still prevalent beneath his mask in the fading light as they locked on her own. Perhaps it was just her current asphyxiating loneliness, or perhaps it was simply her mind slowly discerning her feelings for him, but she felt the heat of his gaze transferring into her own body, the mutual pining for contact all too evident to the both of them. She felt her skin begin to crawl with fire, craving the beautiful complexity of what he was and what she was so assured he could do to her. A knot formed in her stomach, burning through her abdomen until she felt it might sear its way through her skin.

Breaking his eyes away from her, the newly discovered understanding of the other's longing all too clear and currently unapproachable to the two of them, he helped her to stand and lead her back to the bed, drawing the blankets back and helping her to slip under them. He began towards the door when her voice halted him in his tracks.

"Erik?"

The way she spoke his name so questioningly and innocently had become familiar by this point, and he knew that some sort of request would be coming after this.

"…Stay?"

His mouth fell open in surprise, and he felt a chill shoot down his spine. She was asking him to stay with her? To lie with her? Surely not that, she probably just wanted someone in the room with her, to sit in the chair and watch over her the way he'd done so many times before.

"Christine, I – "

"Please, Erik."

What was she doing?

She wasn't even entirely sure herself. What had possessed her to invite him to lie in bed with her? Hadn't an unspoken agreement developed between the two of them just moments before that facilitating any sort of... activity… wasn't going to happen? While it was true that in some margin of her mind she yearned to have his arms around her, she hadn't realized completely that she'd meant it to the extent of pressing the boundaries of the current state of their relationship.

"I… I don't think that would be wise." He gripped the doorknob nervously, his hand toying with it to try and distract him from the reality of her request and the way it had strengthened the burning desire within him. "If I were to… If I… lied with you…"

Her eyes broke away from his and she nodded, swallowing with some difficulty herself at the realization of what could potentially, or most likely, occur should two lonely people both be within such a close distance of each other, inevitably wrapped in each other's arms, nonetheless.

"Good night, then," she said quietly, more to her blankets than to him.

"Good night, Christine," he murmured, slipping out the door and closing it behind him. He walked quietly down the hall to his own bedroom where the wreckage was still present but perhaps a bit tidier than it had been. More organized, if that was possible. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, closing his eyes and momentarily losing himself to the vision of her nimble fingers undressing him instead of his own as she knelt on his bed ready with anticipation to have him.

Christine sank into her pillow, staring up at the ceiling. She turned to her side, her eyes finding the other side of the bed. Empty. She wished it wasn't so, and that instead his form was there with her, loving her and trailing his lips across her skin… The wretched ache within rose at the thought, her body alive and burning up with desire.

She rolled onto her back once more and opened her eyes, greeting the ceiling once again. It was going to be a long night, especially if every time she closed her eyes it was not darkness that she was greeted with, but instead the image of him above her.

With a soft, almost defeated sigh her eyes fell closed once more, knowing that for now she would have to make due with dreams.


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note:** I need to begin by making a brief mention of an edit that has taken place in a previous chapter. In Chapter 9 there is mention of Christine writing a note to Madame Deniel to terminate her employment at the shop. It has also been added that she has written a note to the Girys to tell them that she no longer needs their assistance. This will help to benefit what I have planned for the plot. My apologies that it didn't catch my attention before, but it is there now! So now as far as we all know Christine has contacted both Madame Deniel and the Girys to essentially break off her current ties with them and let them know she is all right. Thank you, enjoy Chapter 19!

* * *

><p>"Pardon me, my apologies!"<p>

He quickly turned the corner and ducked against the wall, heaving a small sigh before continuing on down the street, his eyes always peeled for the faces of anyone that he should potentially be concerned about seeing.

It had been several days since he'd left. He'd checked into an inn, something he'd been hesitant to do at first for it could easily lead to Monsieur Durant finding him should he venture into the city to look. However, then he remembered that it wouldn't exactly be possible for him to leave, not with Christine so helplessly ill. Until she could take care of herself again he had time to think and make plans. It was ironic to think that by putting another's life in danger he'd essentially bought himself time that he needed in order to potentially save his own.

He tried to keep his mind from Christine as much as he could, but it gnawed at him to know that she was still in the house in the presence of Monsieur Durant, him doting on her and caring for her, doing nothing but fostering the apparent relationship between them whether he intended to do so or not.

As far as his desire to have her went, he'd all but given up attempting to push Monsieur Durant out of the picture. If he couldn't kill him, what options did that leave? He'd already failed to charm her - he'd had no luck in diverting her attention at all whatsoever. He had come to the conclusion that the only way to make her notice someone besides the masked man was by getting rid of him, and after that had gone so horribly wrong he wasn't sure he should even attempt to think of another plan.

Knowing this did nothing to quell his want of having her. After becoming so hopelessly attached to her he had discovered how fruitless giving her up was. The woman was like a drug he couldn't break himself from even if he knew that he wasn't gaining anything from it. Being in her presence – even if she didn't show a certain penchant for his company - was addictive, there was something so alluring about the genuineness of her soul and the unpredictability of her character. One could sense it just from being around her. It was too easy to fall for her, always wanting to know more than what was just on the surface and becoming fond of whatever new quality she chose to reveal.

He would give himself time. He would give Monsieur Durant time to cool off, seeing as he doubted that he would ever forget what had happened. He didn't seem to be the kind of person to put things behind him very easily. He would find a way, he wouldn't let her go on residing with someone so utterly undeserving. He wouldn't let her continue spiting him with rejection. He wouldn't let someone that he should have conquered without even having to try beat him so easily.

He paused at an intersection, looking both ways before crossing with a few others. He shoved his hands into his pockets, keeping his head down for the most part, occasionally glancing up at a street sign to keep track of where he was.

"Monsieur Bouchard!" He felt his body tense with alarm. "Damien!"

He contemplated fleeing, running and not looking back. Had he really been found so soon? The man continued to approach him, fighting through the streets until he stood in several feet away. He looked up, his eyes widening at the face. He cleared his throat and forced a smile, forcing his voice into action.

"Monsieur Khan, always a pleasure."

His eyes scanned over him, taking in every detail. He was carrying several large bags, his hands completely full. He placed them down on the sidewalk, freeing his hands for a moment.

"I assume that you're running errands, no?"

For a split second Damien felt a rush of relief. Apparently he didn't know that Damien's employment with Monsieur Durant had essentially been completely curtailed, unless he was merely putting on a front. He wondered if he ought to go along with it in case it was the former, deciding there was really no harm in doing so.

"Yes, just making the rounds, I suppose." He glanced at the bags on the sidewalk once more. "And you? Why all the bags?"

"I've been out of the city for a week or so, I've just returned." Damien felt liberation from his burden slowly preparing itself to jump up and rejoice.

"Ah, I see! I hope that your trip was enjoyable." Nadir nodded in thanks. "Have you received anything from Monsieur Durant recently?"

Nadir pursed his lips momentarily in thought, his face looking slightly confused, and for a moment Damien regretted asking the question so hastily. He had probably just given away any sort of cover he might have had by bringing up such a strange question.

"No, not for several weeks." He said slowly, studying him rather suspiciously. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I was merely wondering…" No, that was a dead giveaway. He quickly covered himself. "Mostly because I've not had to deliver too many personal letters recently – he's had me running all over the city as of late, and often times when I've so many appointments to catch for him he handles mail on his own." That sounded more convincing, or at least he hoped it did. "I may have something for you today, he sent me in with several envelopes to be delivered. I haven't looked through the names yet."

Good God, what kind of lie was he getting himself into? The last thing he needed was a lie to keep track of while he was trying to avoid being caught for attempted murder and poisoning another in the process. It was just one more thing against him if it fell through.

He needed to delve deeper, he needed to be absolutely sure that this wasn't some sort of ploy that Monsieur Durant had set up. He looked down at the bags again, an idea hitting him.

"Would you like me to help you carry those in?"

"Oh, you don't have to, I'm sure that you have other errands you need to be running and my townhouse is just down the street."

"It's no trouble, really, and it will save you some effort."

Nadir hesitated, looking as if he was legitimately thinking it over and weighing the pros and cons of his possible answers. There was something that kept him from saying yes without any sort of reluctance. He'd always known Damien to be a rather nice young man by al means - he'd never heard any complaints about him. Erik had always spoken of him as being reasonable, and if Erik, of all people, had trusted him to some extent with everything that he was hiding then he had no reason not to. And he was right, it would save him quite a deal of energy and time to simply have him help. Why not?

"If you're certain…"

"I couldn't be more certain if I tried. I don't need to be at Monsieur Durant's next appointment for about – " he glanced at his watch, praising himself for adding such a convincing touch, " – forty minutes or so." He reached down and picked up two of the bags, leaving Nadir to take the other two.

"This way," he said, and Damien began to follow him down the street as they maneuvered around all of the couples and other city-goers on the sidewalk.

They walked in silence for a bit until he spoke again, almost catching Damien by surprise.

"How has he been doing, by the way?"

Damien pursed his lips and thought for a moment, almost telling the truth about his mood up until the incident before he realized that he knew nothing of Christine's presence. If he remembered correctly, it had been Monsieur Khan who had brought the news to Monsieur Durant to begin with. As far as he knew she was still dead, and now Damien would have to act as if he knew nothing of her.

Funny, the one time he wasn't even planning to lie he ended up having to any way.

"He's been all right, I suppose. A bit more solemn than usual, perhaps."

"How so?"

He hesitated, trying to think back to the days when Monsieur actually had been affected by the news of Christine's apparent death.

"He hasn't really elaborated in any sort of discussion. When I bring him news from someone in the city he merely gives me an abrupt answer and then dismisses me." He adjusted his grip on the handle of the suitcase. "Not that he was ever a man for conversation to begin with. I suppose he just is a bit more isolated than usual, he hasn't been asking for much."

"Well, that actually sounds a bit better than I expected." Nadir smirked slightly, shaking his head. "I'd been meaning to venture out and see for myself, but hadn't been able to find the time."

Damien had to hide the almost panicked look that crossed his face. What would have happened had he gone out there? Well, besides the obvious that he would have discovered a living, breathing Christine de Chagny, and surely then all hell would have broken loose.

He contemplated telling him of Christine's presence at the house, thinking that perhaps it might actually be beneficial to him if he were to go out and see for himself that she was alive and well. It might bring some sort of trouble to Monsieur Durant. He then realized that if Monsieur Khan was such a good friend to him that he would probably help keep the secret of her death. And more than that, if she'd been hiding to begin with she probably did want to be discovered, and he didn't want to ruin his eventual chances with her by being the one to lead the rest of the city to her discovery should Monsieur Khan tell anyone.

"Here we are," Nadir said as he stopped at the steps of a small townhouse, digging through his pocket for the keys. Upon finding them he began up the steps, Damien right behind, and unlocked the door to step inside.

"You can just set them inside the door when you step in. Would you like some tea or anything?"

Truthfully, Damien didn't want much of anything but to find out how much he knew about what had recently occurred at the Durant house, but he figured that in order to eventually gain any insight regarding that he would have to appease Monsieur Khan and give in to his hospitality.

"That would be lovely, thank you."

He took once last glance around the step as if to make sure that no one had potentially recognized him. Two times in one day was two times too many. He was about to step inside when his eyes landed on the letterbox just next to the door.

If he'd been gone, there was a chance that there could be something in there waiting for him, something that could potentially be from Monsieur Durant.

"Would you like me to check your letterbox for you?"

"Oh, I completely forgot," Nadir said from the kitchen as he filled the teakettle with water. "Yes, just check and see if there's anything there and then I'll grab it later." While he trusted him to carry his bags, he didn't trust him to sift through his mail - the boy didn't need to know anything concerning his personal business.

Damien set the bags down and opened the box, staring inside at a single envelope. He almost alerted Monsieur Khan until he saw the wax seal on the back of it.

He recognized that seal. It was from Monsieur Durant.

He almost heaved an audible sigh of relief, suddenly glad that he'd spotted the letterbox in time to ask about it. He quickly reached in and snatched it, stuffing it into the pocket of his jacket before clamping the lid closed and picking up the bags once more.

"Nothing there!"

He stepped inside and set the bags down, then closed the door behind him. He strode into the kitchen, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves as he did so, watching as he placed the kettle on the stove. It wouldn't hurt to sit for a while, would it? Perhaps then he could work at making a friend of Monsieur Khan, or at least work at making sure that he wouldn't find out about the current situation until he was able to move along and hide somewhere that Monsieur Durant wouldn't be able to find him.

He took a seat at the small table, leaning back in the chair and drumming his fingers on it as Nadir moved to sit with him.

"I was somewhat worried about him, you know. That was why I asked you how he was." Nadir leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "Ever since the fire at the de Chagny manor…"

"What connection does he have to the de Chagnys?"

Nadir hesitated, trying to find a way to say it without completely giving away Erik's identity. The last thing he wanted to was let his hired man know that he wasn't just a wealthy man living away the rest of his days in the country. He couldn't let him know that he'd once been the one that so many knew as the Opera Ghost that had tormented the inhabitants of the Garnier for so long, even killing a few of them off. While they'd known he'd existed, there had only been rumors regarding his appearance as far as Nadir knew. No one but Christine, her young man, the ballet mistress, himself, and his unfortunate victims had ever seen the elusive Opera Ghost.

"He knew the Vicomtesse. He was an old friend, I suppose you could say. I fear that her disappearance may have caused more grief than if she had merely died in the fire. Not knowing often tends to be worse than knowing the truth, as horrible as the truth may be."

So Damien had been right to some account, then again it wasn't hard to decipher that they'd known each other before with the way he'd greeted her upon her first appearance at the house. He'd known who she was, obviously he'd known her before the news of her death had been printed in the paper.

"Ah, I see. How did he know her?"

Nadir smirked slightly, glancing over at the tea kettle and wishing it would boil to save him the time he was losing trying to formulate ways to cover Erik's tracks.

"They were both at the Opera around the same time."

Right again.

"So he's a musician then? I've caught a glimpse at one of his rooms on the upper level of the house, the one that has the piano, but I've never heard him play."

"I'm not surprised that he doesn't play any more, but yes. I don't think he's played for several years, though, now that I think about it."

He wasn't about to press any further, that was really all the information he needed to know. He was merely concerned with discerning whether or not Monsieur Khan had learned of anything new that had happened at the house, and he'd managed to do that while validating what Christine had told him in the mean time. Anything else probably wouldn't be too beneficial for him any way.

The teakettle soon squealed, alerting them that the water had boiled. Nadir stood and poured two cups, placing the tea bags in and bringing each over to the table. He set one in front of Damien, and then sat down once more.

Damien stared down into the teacup sitting in his hand, willing it to steep and cool so that he could merely drink it and be on his way. More than anything he was dying to read the letter that sat in his pocket, its presence all too perceptible to him, almost as if he were carrying around a pocket full of rocks instead of a simple piece of paper. It wasn't about to let him forget that it was there.

"I'm surprised that he didn't attend the service for the both of them if they were such good friends," he finally said, taking a sip of his tea.

"It would have been too much. I'm sure that he'll come to terms with her death on his own time."

Damien nodded in agreement and took another drink of his tea, attempting to take as much in as he could without completely burning his mouth. He attempted to think of a way to make a casual exit, looking down at his tea once more and catching sight of his watch in the process. The appointment, he'd told Monsieur Khan that he had an appointment to make. It was perfect. He glanced at his watch, feigning surprise. If he couldn't drink his tea fast enough he'd just act like he needed to leave.

"Ah, look at the time, I'm afraid I need to leave if I'm going to make it to his next appointment on time." He stood and took the last drink of his tea before setting it back down on the table. "Thank you for the tea." He began towards the door when Nadir's voice stopped him.

"If you find that you've a letter for me just drop it in the letterbox, I'll collect it later this afternoon."

Damien nodded, placing his hand protectively over the letter in his pocket before turning and walking out the door.

Nadir sat at the table, sipping at his tea as he contemplated all that had just happened. It hadn't been strange running into the young man, it'd been a bit bizarre for him to be so insistent about helping him, but perhaps he was simply being personable. Was that really anything to be suspicious about?

He stood and took the cups to the sink, placing them in the bottom before walking over to the door and opening it, checking the letterbox but finding nothing. He stared down the street in time to catch the young man's form as he turned the corner a block or so down.

Reluctantly he stepped back inside and closed the door, telling himself that it was all in his head and there was nothing to be so skeptical about.

He wove through the streets, ducking into a small alley a few blocks away from the house and pulling the envelope from his pocket. He glanced around once more to make sure he wasn't being watched before he tore the envelope open and pulled the letter from inside, his eyes greedily reading over the words.

_Nadir,_

_I hope this finds you in good health, as I know that we've not communicated recently. I've been meaning to write you, but due to certain events that have transpired here I have been detained in doing so. However, now that I have found the time I must request something of you, something concerning the events that I have previously mentioned._

_It seems that there has been a bit of trouble with my young man, Damien. I will spare you the lengthy details of the situation and simply conclude by saying that his employment in my home has ended and he has fled my home due to rather unfavorable circumstances, I assume to the city. As I am currently unable to leave and venture into the city to try to locate him, I merely ask that if you see him you make note of what it is that he is doing, or where he is staying should you be able to find out, and let me know so I can attempt to make contact with him._

_If you have already seen him or have heard anything by some slim chance, please write as soon as you can._

_I hope to hear from you soon._

_Regards,_

_Erik_

Damien folded up the letter, a look of distrust evident on his face. Clever bastard. He didn't believe a word of it, not after knowing what had actually happened. He couldn't even begin to imagine what would have occurred had Monsieur Khan actually received such a letter. While he'd been so anxious about being spoken to he now realized that it had been his saving grace in this case. By intercepting it he now understood how much time he'd managed to buy himself. All he could do now was pray that Monsieur Khan wouldn't make a trip to the country to visit any time soon.

He'd best begin planning on a new place to stay, somewhere that no one would find him without effort. He contemplated leaving the city, but decided that it would leave behind too many potential clues as to where he'd gone. All Monsieur Durant or Monsieur Khan would have to do would be to formulate a little lie and ask if anyone by the name of Damien Bouchard had bought a train ticket recently and they'd have their answer.

He placed the letter back in his pocket before re-entering the street, heading in the direction of the inn where he could sit in his room without having to worry about curious eyes landing on his face every second, reassuring himself that he had the upper hand right now and as long as he acted wisely he wouldn't need to be so paranoid, at least for a while anyway. As long as the odds were in his favor and he managed to stay one step ahead of him there was nothing to worry about. Even with the reassurance he felt his stomach churn with uneasiness.

He couldn't help but feel that one step wasn't a big enough lead to keep him ahead for much longer.


	20. Chapter 20

After that night the following days had come and gone rather blandly, and this morning the sun had risen in its usual manner. Christine had been eager to greet it regardless of how ordinary it it was, for it marked the last of the days that she would have to spend in bed doing absolutely nothing. Her head felt much better, her headache had drifted away in her sleep and for the most part she felt no major head rush upon moving suddenly. Erik had warned her that she wouldn't be able to jump back to full activity right away, but even that wasn't worth dreading when it meant that she could at least sit in another room with something to occupy herself instead of being confined to the peach colored walls that were slowly eating away at her sanity.

She'd very nearly memorized the details of the bedroom. Window, dresser, desk, vanity, door… She could even name where all the objects on the vanity were placed, and was confident that one could tie a blindfold on her and tell her to point to the vase of flowers on the desk and she'd be able to do so without any trouble. However, it was nice to know that she didn't have to be confined to the bed. Without his help she could slowly (and very, very carefully) make her way over to the window or to the vanity without falling victim to bouts of dizziness that seemingly liked to sneak up on her now and again just when she thought she'd finally gotten over them.

Sitting in the bed she would watch him come and go, bringing her water or some fruit to try and help her missing appetite, the one thing that hadn't made a full recovery and probably wouldn't for several more days.

His sudden willingness to comply with her requests lifted her spirits, her heart skipping a beat when he would make an appearance and sinking with disappointment each time he had to leave, wishing that he would stay there with her instead.

The first event of the morning had involved removing the bandages from her hands and ankles, some of the tension from the other night trying to rear its head again, only to be pushed down. However it was indisputable that it had only been conquered with great effort. She'd noticed the way his jaw had clenched as he'd held her delicate hands, and even more so when he'd taken her lovely ankles and began unwrapping them, his eyes trying so determinedly to keep from venturing up the smooth curve of her calf, only succeeding half of the time.

He hadn't been the only one to struggle. Ever since that night, every time he entered the room her eyes would never leave his form, entranced by the surreal gracefulness of every movement. How perfectly trained every muscle in his body must have been to be able to move in such a way. While he was by no means a strapping young man full of brawn and infinite muscle, there was an air about him that proved he was powerfully built and potently strong, something that was undeniably alluring and attractive. His tall frame was intimidating enough in itself, and while most men would typically be quick to underestimate the strength of someone of his stature simply because he was not burly there was such a commanding aura about him that one dared not even begin to formulate judgment based on his build.

Once or twice he had caught her gazing at him, only for her to quickly look away and blush, forever the coy little coquette whose face burned up the moment she was caught. It never stopped her eyes from creeping back to him the moment he turned away, unable to refrain from noticing how his shirt draped across his shoulders and down his arms, tucked so neatly into his trousers that hung so flatteringly on his long legs.

It had only occurred to her after being in his presence once again how often in the past she had imagined those powerful arms holding her and their skilled hands caressing her instead of Raoul's, how often she had to keep her mind in check as he'd made love to her, fearful that if she ever truly lost herself to the sensations that she would slip and cry out the name of the man her heart secretly desired no matter how many times her brain tried to shake the feeling. Even now as she thought back to all of those instances her mind attempted to reason with her, telling her that she loved Raoul, her husband, even in his death. He had gone through hell and back to make her happy and keep her safe, and now it appeared to her as though the most she had done was acknowledge it briefly before resuming her thoughts of the man she'd left behind.

There was nothing in the world that had made her feel guiltier, knowing that Raoul always tried to be everything he could for her. It was never that she didn't love Raoul; she had loved him more than anything. He'd been her greatest friend, her protector. In her naivety he had been her everything, and she'd left thinking that the choice was for the better only to discover in time who it had been that she should have committed her life to. In her defense, she always told herself that her heart's pining for the man in the mask was simply due to the fact that there were qualities about him that no man could ever replicate, or even hope to replicate. Unfortunately they happened to be qualities that drew Christine to him like a moth to a flame, married or not.

Each new observation she made of him sent a surge of warm excitement through her, the sparks scattering and dancing through her abdomen only to venture to every other realm of her body. It was the first time that she'd truly taken note of every detail of his appearance while feeling an emotion other than terror. She couldn't put an exact name on the feeling, though whether that was because she legitimately couldn't identify it or because she was too bashful to recognize her feelings was debatable.

She now sat the vanity examining her appearance in the mirror, perhaps suddenly curious about her own looks after spending so much time observing – or, more accurately, admiring - his. She was less than pleased, to say the least, and immediately snatched the hairbrush to try and make sense of her tousled, unkempt curls.

Was it possible that she really looked so scruffy and grungy after such a short time? She knew she'd been through a hellish amount of physical distress, but was it truly so capable of completely spoiling her appearance to the point of looking like an absolute train wreck? It horrified her to think that she'd appeared so disheveled and grimy, her hair dirty and messy. She must have looked like some sort of creature out of one of the old fantastical stories that her father used to tell her.

More than merely being uncomfortable with herself at the idea of being so dirty, she was almost more disgusted to think that she'd looked so atrocious in front of _him_. She'd observed countless times in the past how disgusted the people of the city were with the beggars on the streets, disgusted by their dirty faces and tattered hair. She was not about to let herself appear so displeasingly before Erik.

Then again, why did she care so much?

Her eyes met the gaze of her reflection and she saw how her cheeks had reddened.

It was an obvious answer – what he thought of her meant something to her, especially after all the time she'd spent away from him. She needed validation that she still appealed to him. His opinion was more important to her than any other, and to look – and probably smell, considering how many times she'd been sick in this dress – so foul was probably not something that he found too terribly inviting and was most definitely something that sprouted great insecurity within her.

She'd been wearing the same dress for several days now because she hadn't enough strength to get up and change it herself and she lacked the courage to ask Erik to help her do so. They both seemed to avoid the situation as if it were the plague, each knowing as each day went by that they probably should have done something but not saying anything for fear of suddenly making everything incredibly awkward. However, today that needed to change, for she absolutely refused to go on looking like a hot mess in dire need of fixing.

She placed the brush down on the vanity, giving one last uncomfortable look at her appearance before carefully making her way to sit on the edge of the bed to wait for him to return to the room, trying to concoct a casual way to bring up the subject without arousing too much embarrassment and uneasiness.

It wasn't long before she heard his footsteps coming down the hall, and at the sound of his hand on the knob she felt the stirring in her stomach that alerted her to the mild nervousness she felt about the task looming in front of her.

"Any better?" he asked, not meeting her gaze as he went for the empty plate that sat on her bedside table.

"Yes, I've been able to move around a bit more." He nodded silently in response, leaving her to sit awkwardly and wring her hands, attempting to quell her anxiety and simply ask him the question. It was a bath, just a simple bath; it wasn't like he was going to be in the tub with her!

Her cheeks turned a deep shade of red and she almost choked at the thought, coughing slightly in an attempt to both catch her breath that had been so abruptly stolen away from her and clear her throat, hoping to regain her composure.

God forbid she ever think of something so tempting again.

Such visions did nothing to quiet the raging restlessness in her body that now seemed to appear every time he entered the room, and if anything they only strengthened the fire in below the surface, waking her being that much more and putting her on edge.

"Are you all right, Christine?"

She nodded, managing to sputter a few words.

"Y-yes, yes I'm… fine."

He gave her a questioning look that all too obviously announced that he wasn't entirely sure he believed her.

"…Are you sure?"

She nodded vigorously, her eyes plastered to the wall in front of her, unable to look at him for fear of what else it might ignite within her.

"You look uncomfortable."

"That's silly," she stated abruptly with a nervous laugh, her words almost running over his. "I'm… I'm fine."

"Well then." He paused, still examining her current condition with skepticism. "I'll be in the study, call for me if you need anything." He hesitantly turned to walk out the door, leaving the two of them in silence for a moment until she finally looked over at him and managed to blurt out her thoughts.

"May I take a bath?"

He froze.

So _that _was the meaning of all this uneasiness.

Unfortunately for him the feeling was contagious.

It took him every ounce of self-control that he possessed to not eagerly picture the sight of her naked form in a tub full of water, however, it wasn't working so successfully and the torment began, a reel of daydreams running through his mind against his will. He cleared his throat, turning back to her and running a hand over his hair nervously.

"I… don't see why not."

She felt a mild sense of relief at the answer, but still couldn't bring herself to shake the antsy feeling within. He glanced around the room once before briefly meeting her gaze.

"I'll… go… draw you a bath."

He left the room and she heaved a sigh of relief, placing a hand on her forehead and attempting to free herself of the horrendously suffocating emotion inside of her, but finding no escape.

If anything, she was caught off guard by how quickly it had managed to overtake her entire system, sweeping her off her feet and leaving her in great need of some way to calm herself. She didn't think that merely asking him about taking a bath would send her into such a hysterically uncomfortable stimulated frenzy.

She swallowed with some difficulty, her mouth having run dry with anxiousness. Soon enough she heard his footsteps approaching once more, each step like a nail being hammered into the coffin that held her apparently dead sense of composure. She was absolutely convinced that her stomach had dissipated into a hoard of butterflies trying to break free from their confines, each one beating against her from the inside demanding release.

He entered the room and walked over to her, holding out his hand to help her to her feet. Upon standing she swayed slightly and he reached for her instinctively, wrapping his arm about her waist and pulling her to his side, knowing all too well that he would have to hold her there in order to help her walk to the tub that was waiting for her. Her body became completely rigid and her face betrayed her, failing to conceal her apparent mortification.

He led her to the door, having coaxed her limbs into moving, and helped her into the hallway, staring down and realizing that the room had never seemed so far away as it did now. Her arm had made its way across his lower back to cling to the other side of his waist in an attempt to steady her wobbly legs, an embrace that he tried to ignore as they began their careful voyage towards restoring her cleanliness.

Having her so close was virtually unbearable whilst knowing where she would be and what she would be doing within minutes. He felt his pulse begin to quicken, willing this entire situation to simply be over so he could retreat back to the study and lock himself inside where he wouldn't have to confront the raging longing within him.

Step by step he slowly - and agonizingly - made his way to the bathroom with her and upon entering the room helped her lean against the edge of the sink to support herself.

"I'll just be across the hall. Let me know when you've finished and I'll help you back to your bedroom." She nodded and watched as he quickly exited the room, feeling the burning fire inside her reduce itself to a dull ember, quieting itself for the time being but lingering, never making a true departure.

With a deep breath she stood and moved to the toilet, sitting on the closed lid to pull off her stockings. She then stood once more and attempted to reach over her head to unbutton her dress, able to reach the first few but completely incapable of unbuttoning the rest. She suddenly felt herself begin to panic.

She attempted to pull the dress over her head, clawing at the fabric like some sort of trapped animal, but found that it was too snug at this point to slip off. Her pulse began to race, her limbs tense and suddenly uncoordinated. Her fingers fumbled over the buttons, desperate to try and undo them herself, but with no success.

If she couldn't get it off, she couldn't take a bath. If she couldn't unbutton it, she couldn't get it off by herself. If she couldn't get it off by herself, that only left her one option.

With uneasy footsteps she made her way to the door, placing her hand on the knob and pulling it open, peeking around it to look across the hall and see him sitting in a chair, staring down at the floor with his hands clutching the arms. His eyes snapped up to her the moment he heard the door creak as it opened wider.

"What do you need?"

She glanced at the floor, then back at him, unable to make herself say anything.

Damn it all, how awkwardly torturous did this have to be? All she wanted to do was take a bath so she wouldn't have to look like a little street rat, and now there were a hundred and one obstacles in the way, her dress being the least challenging of all of them.

"What is it, Christine?"

Clearing her throat, she mustered up all the courage she could, but didn't meet his gaze.

"I… I need you to help me… take my dress off."

He sat in absolute silence, his face stone still, completely blank and unreadable. The only thing that alerted her to any sort of reaction was the ghastly white of his knuckles as he clutched the arm of the chair, his eyes locked on her frame.

Was this… was she really asking…? She had to know how desperately he'd been struggling with his desire for her since she'd arrived, and even more so since the other night, physical or not, and now she was asking him to help undress her. For God's sake she might as well ask him to take the bar of soap and scrub her all over as she sat in the bath at this rate. Truthfully, if things continued on in the way they were going he wouldn't be surprised if she did, and he wouldn't be surprised if he didn't say no.

She had no other choice as there was no one else to help her, he knew that. But really, what was she trying to do, kill him?

"Erik?"

His eyes shifted to the floor and he cleared his throat, attempting to calm his burning stress.

"…Be right there…"

She stepped away from the door and towards the center of the room, chewing her lip with apprehension as she heard his footsteps slowly approaching the door. It opened carefully and he stepped inside, quietly walking over to her and standing awkwardly for a moment or two before forcing his voice into action, his tone more commanding and austere than he'd intended it to be.

"Turn around."

She did so, and he stood at what was essentially his entire arms length away, refusing to be any closer to her than he had to as he completed the task. He couldn't stop his eyes from observing how the material shrugged away from her form and revealed the thin petticoat beneath it, and just underneath that the velvety skin of her back. He pursed his lips and clenched his jaw to an unbearable tightness, using every power within him to keep from ripping that dress off and ravaging her flesh with greedy hands.

His work was soon completed and he stepped back, too eager to put distance between the two of them.

"There you go." He turned and walked out as she murmured an awkward "thank you," closing the door tightly behind him and releasing a heavy sigh once he was on the other side of it, swiftly retreating to his chair where he could endeavor to aim his thoughts in a direction that didn't largely consist of Christine bathing.

She finished undressing, leaving the clothes in a small heap on the tile floor near the side of the tub. She stepped in and carefully sat down, relishing in the way the hot water melted away any and all tension from her body, allowing her complete relaxation for the small amount of time that she'd been given. It was time away from those torturous thoughts, time where she could try to focus her mind on something other than the man just across the hall who was potentially struggling just as much as she was.

She submerged herself below the surface of the water, soon coming up with a gasp and wiping the drops away from her eyes. She reached for the bar of soap, running it over her arms and scrubbing away the grungy feeling of filth. Her eyes closed and she leaned back against the porcelain rim of the tub, determined to focus her thoughts solely on calming herself and releasing any and all distress from her body.

Her hands moved to trail the bar of soap up her leg, and for an instant her mind flashed to an image of the two of them, his hand trailing along the skin of her leg instead of her own that clutched the soap, forever trailing upwards, further and further until...

A shiver flew up her spine and she shuddered, the water splashing around her and her eyes snapping open. So much for trying to re-focus her thoughts. She felt breathless, as if her lungs couldn't take in enough air no matter how hard they tried.

Working quickly from that point on, she abandoned any thought of enjoying her bath and simply concentrated on finishing as quickly as she possibly could, cleaning her hair and scrubbing down the rest of her body at a rapid pace before standing and wringing the extra water from her hair. She began to climb out of the tub, water sloshing over the edge and creating a small puddle on the floor. Her eyes scanned for her dressing gown.

She stopped dead in her tracks, completely paralyzed as her mind registered what had happened.

They hadn't brought her dressing gown.

Of all the things that she could have forgotten she managed to choose the one thing where remembering it would have saved her the most humiliation. There was no doubt that her pride was about to take a beating as she realized that she had no other alternative but to ask him to retrieve it. She couldn't just put her dirty clothes back on, especially when she was still wet, and more than that she'd been wearing them for days and had been sick in them. Putting them back on would completely defeat the purpose of cleaning herself. It was absolutely out of the question, which meant that she once again had to call for Erik to come to the rescue.

She carefully lowered herself back into the bath and pulled her knees to her chest, curled into a protective ball, covering herself in both embarrassment and preparation for what she had to do. Something told her that it wasn't going to go too terribly well.

"…Erik?" She called out, almost hoping that he wouldn't hear her and she'd just have to come up with another plan, such as pressing her luck and simply trying to sprint down the hall completely naked back to her room without him being near enough to catch her in the act. Granted, that probably would have ended up being much more disastrous. But alas, she didn't even have time to try and think of anything that would be remotely plausible as she soon heard his voice outside the door.

"Are you decent?"

She felt the color drain from her face.

"…Not… not exactly."

He mirrored her pallid complexion on the other side of the door, firmly believing that she was going to give him a heart attack if she put him through too much more of this.

"What… do you need?"

"A dressing gown, I forgot to bring one with me."

There was no response, and she could only assume that he'd gone to retrieve it, thankful that in a few minutes this would all be over and she could just sit in the window brushing her hair and listening to the birds sing outside, knowing that singing birds would do nothing to make her helplessly burn with such passion.

At this point it wasn't even that she felt awkward, it was that she felt that if she was around him for one more moment with such fire blazing away underneath her skin she would lose control of herself and do something irrational and irreversible. The tension was excruciating, and she needed to be alone for an hour or so until she could honestly feel as though it had left her body entirely.

There was a sharp knock on the door and he opened it, slipping in quickly and very nearly throwing the white robe into her outstretched hands, his eyes permanently adhered to the floor. He turned sharply on his heel, striding back to the door and closing it rather forcefully behind him.

He leaned back against the wood, his eyes closed as he worked to drive away the emotion within him. He couldn't have her. Even if he'd managed to come to a point where he didn't instill constant fear or hatred in her and she might want him as a companion of sorts she wouldn't want him for what he was physically. He was absolutely positive that she'd be appalled if she knew of all of the visions of her running through his head. This one her body tangled in the linens with his, that one her sweet, lovely face contorted with passion, another her stunning curls strewn across his pillow as her form writhed desperately below him. He swore that if he had to enter the room just beyond the door behind him a third time all hell would break loose.

She'd brought forth the monster again, a different kind of monster, even if she hadn't intended to.

Inside the room, Christine stood cautiously after pulling the plug from the drain and then reached for a towel to dry herself, running it over her torso before hanging it on the rack again. She donned the dressing gown, careful to hold the small train of it above the slowly sinking water level. She lifted her leg and stepped out, not remembering the puddle of water that had manifested the first time when she'd started to climb out of the tub.

Needless to say, the moment her dainty little foot touched the tile she was gone, and with a yelp her foot slid from beneath her and she fell to the floor, landing promptly on her backside.

At the sound of her crying out the door was open in an instant, and Erik's gaze locked with hers, swearing that his heart had stopped beating entirely, the both of them completely mortified.

There she sat on the floor, her hands behind her propping her up while her lovely, nimble legs, completely rigid with knees bent slightly as if she would pull them to her chest any second, lay exposed almost to the hip - thankfully anything entirely inappropriate (if that was even possible at this point) was covered, the dressing gown had been gracious enough to leave at least some things to the imagination - and damp, covered in rivulets of water as she clenched them together in what he assumed was an attempt to hide herself. The neckline of her robe dove down into her rapidly rising and falling chest in a great "V" just narrowly avoiding making her even more indecent as her skin glistened beneath a fine layer of water from her still-wet curls, several of which were fixed upon the red flesh of her cheeks and forehead as if it were their business to be so stubbornly glued there.

It was a sight more enticing than any that he'd conjured in his head.

Christine was the first to shatter the paralyzed atmosphere around them, tearing her eyes away from his smoldering stare and pulling the dressing gown over her legs as she began to try and discern a method of standing that would ensure she would remain on her feet.

Erik was snapped from his trance as he saw her attempting to stand, briskly striding over and grabbing her by the arms to hoist her onto her feet. She felt herself slide again on the slick tile and she latched onto his sleeves as he instinctively embraced her to keep her from falling, her body clasped against his. He nearly shuddered at the sensation of her plush, compliant flesh molded perfectly into his rigid, tense frame. It was impossible to define the way her supple, unbound chest pressed against him, her heartbeat thundering within, or how his hands felt the true shape of her slender waist without the distortion of whalebone for the first time.

It was the epitome of pure, untainted loveliness, and it was vivid and tangible - a single piece of heaven held in his embrace as his mind whirled with passionate euphoria, foggy with desire and lost in what he could only assume was a dream.

He really ought to hate her for what she was putting him through. He ought to hate her for what she'd done to him years ago, even a month ago. He ought to hate her for the way her body taunted him, pulling the strings of his sanity as if it were a puppet under her control, jumping this way and that at the slight of her hand. He ought to hate her for the grief she'd caused him, for all of the torment and frustration and wondering what could have been if she'd stayed.

He ought to hate her for hundreds of reasons, but he'd never been able to bring himself to hate anything of real beauty.

As much as he often felt he deserved to, he would never be able to bring himself to hate his Christine.

"Christine…" He managed to choke the name out softly, his voice laced with suppressed passion, wanting nothing more than to know that she was his without being held back by the memory of their past. She was here, she was with him in his arms under the most intense and rather humiliating circumstances and she wasn't fleeing. What was holding him back now?

He concluded that it was simply that it was too much. Thinking that things could never escalate to such a point only for them to do so had stunned him into immobilized disbelief. First asking for a bath, then asking for help undressing… She should have known that bringing him back in a third time - only to find her almost entirely bare, nonetheless – would be his ultimate undoing. He couldn't handle it, he'd tried to keep his composure but it was impossible, the temptation had simply been too much and he couldn't keep himself from giving in.

He was strong, but not that strong.

She slowly broke her gaze from his, resting her head against his chest, lulled by the sound of his heartbeat in her ear, her skin alive and crawling with the sensation of his form against her. With every pound of his heart within his chest she felt the repressed emotions of two years spilling out, flooding her being and physically reminding her of all that she'd missed. How often heart had ached for him, wishing that she'd never been without him.

In her innocence he'd frightened her, his dark passion had confused her and she'd lacked understanding, always petrified of the way he made her feel. She'd never been able to decipher the way her body reacted to him, always drawn to him while her mind screamed for her to run. As she'd grown, experience had taught her that the feelings he'd inspired within her had been nothing to be so terrified of, and with each passing day she would recount the memories and acquire endless regret. In him was the promise of a love deeper and more fervent than any other she would ever feel. In him was the promise of music, of fire and relentless passion – everything her life in the light with Raoul had lacked. Never would a day go by that she didn't berate herself for being so foolish and callow, even if she'd still experienced happiness without him. There was always the unbearable question of what could have happened that drove her mad with longing.

She'd lived through two long years thinking of him, always reflecting on their time together and what it had done for her, and pondering what had happened to him. Was he living somewhere else? Was he safe? Was he even alive? Every night she had secretly prayed for him, praying he would be safe and that somehow he could find peace amidst all of his suffering, suffering that she'd taken part in inflicting on him.

Praying that someday he could forgive her for what she'd done and how she'd scorned him.

Her hands moved to wrap themselves around him, burying herself away in his arms and yearning for the painful, unwanted memories to shrink away with her and release her from the suffocating regret that had consumed her being. She clutched the fabric of his shirt in her hands, closing her eyes to the outside world and losing herself in the sound of his heart drumming against his chest, letting the scent of his cologne fuel the fire inside her as her breathing escalated, her being desperately clinging to him with ardor.

"I've missed you so much," she uttered, her voice hoarse with regret and longing, "so much more than you could ever know."

His mind felt deaf to the words, hearing them but unable to comprehend. It couldn't be true, she couldn't be saying these things… She hated him, she was terrified of him. He had caused her nothing but grief and pain and had tormented her with his obsession. He had made her life hell on earth.

She couldn't be telling him that she missed him.

But she was.

And what reason did she have to lie to him? She had no reason to try to escape. He wasn't making her choose; she had no choice, no one to save - her boy was already dead this time… Why would she be dishonest when there was nothing pushing her to do so?

He released a ragged breath, allowing his arms to relax somewhat and hold her to him tightly, pressing his face into her damp curls as he granted himself at least the pleasure of holding her until they would simply go back to their usual routine.

She lifted her head to look at him, his face unbelievably close. A knot formed in her throat and she felt an explosion of heat surge through her body. He was so close. Her lips parted, her eyes moving from his to his mouth, feeling the painful aching within her, wanting nothing more than to feel them against her own.

Little did she know that in his mind the same thought filtered through as he stared down at her face, his eyes tracing the watery trails down her cheeks from the droplets that ventured away from her soaked locks.

She lifted her hand to touch his jaw, burning with longing at the simple contact and pining for more. Her eyes slowly ventured back to his, her other hand moving curiously to the base of his neck. He felt his skin come alive, the hair at the base of his neck standing on end with a shiver. He leaned forward to press his parted lips to her forehead, shuddering at the connection and clutching the material of her dressing gown tightly between his fingers. Her brow knit in agonizing pleasure, her throat releasing a choked groan at the contact as she felt the heat that crept through her body. She wanted nothing more than to satiate the need, to fill the empty, lonely hole that had been so brutally bored into the very core of her being, a hole that she now understood had been there far longer than the amount of time she'd acknowledged it. A hole that she now understood could only be filled by one person.

"Erik…"

Nothing more needed to be said.

Any restraint that he'd managed to keep in tact until this point snapped and fell away as his lips moved from her forehead and seized hers, eliciting a soft cry as she returned the sentiment, deepening the connection. So long he had struggled with his desire for her, trying to shut it away and ignore it like it couldn't exist. But now... She'd push him to the limit until he couldn't stand it any longer and ultimately had to give in, regardless of the consequences. She stood on her tiptoes, her hands moving to his face, holding him to her as if she was trying to pull him even closer than he already was. He broke away from her momentarily, the two of them panting lightly as his forehead rested against hers, his hand moving to her face to stroke her feverish cheek with his thumb as he sought her lips once more.

He carefully directed her backwards to the edge of the sink, helping her to lift herself onto it to sit there. She grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him to her urgently, her lithe, slender legs wrapping about his torso.

She felt the shiver that barreled down his spine in response, almost smiling against his lips in satisfaction.

His lips trailed from her mouth to explore her jaw with hot, peppered kisses, then the milky skin of her neck as his hands slid to her hips, caressing the soft, yielding flesh beneath her robe. Her head dropped back to expose the sensitive area for him, her skin crawling with fire in every place his mouth and hands met. Her fingers tangled in his hair as a pitiful, desperate whimper passed her parted lips and she pressed her torso to his, her spine curling in delight.

And to think she'd once been frightened of this.

She pulled his mouth back to hers, devouring it with her own and provoking a strangled rasp of a groan as his hips instinctively pushed against her, inducing a gratifying reply from her own golden throat in return.

While there may have been part of her mind that told her that she shouldn't be doing this, the lonely ache throughout the rest of her body managed to silence it quite easily. This was comforting, something that helped her to forget all that had happened and only focus on now. It was the kind of consolation that she might not have thought to embrace at one point, but now it seemed to be the only consolation that could accurately help to mend the broken soul inside her.

His mind was spinning in response to both the intoxicating scent of her skin, the scent that was so uniquely Christine, and at the completely unbelievable situation he currently found himself in. Truthfully, he couldn't even be sure that it was truly happening and that he wouldn't simply wake up a moment from now with his mind hazy and blurred, thinking to himself what a vivid dream it had been only to lie down and wish he hadn't woken up. Never had he thought that his hands would be caressing her delicate body, never had he thought that she would willingly press her lips to his with such insatiable hunger. More than that, he'd never thought a time would come when she would be virtually pulling him to her with such desperation that he was left feeling as though he couldn't keep up with her. Not that he was complaining, by any means. No man in his right mind would be dissatisfied in the arms of such a woman.

He hands had moved to her torso, preparing themselves to untie the lace of her robe and expose the entirety of her glorious gifts when an abrupt rapping noise made his entire body go completely rigid.

Someone was at the front door.

She looked mildly alarmed, almost as if whoever it was at the door had caught them in the act from below on the lawn, and looked back to him with wide eyes, begging him for some sort of instructions as to what to do.

"Ignore it."

He was in no mood for distractions and captured her lips once more, only for the knocking to continue, this time louder and infinitely more irritating. Or was that just him?

He broke away from her reluctantly, and she could see the fire in his eyes, knowing it was not the same passionate fire she'd seen earlier. It was much more hellish, much more like the seething inferno she'd witnessed the afternoon she'd ripped his mask off.

She could only assume that the offense this person had committed in interrupting them had been just as – if not extensively more – severe.

He left her sitting at the edge of the sink to go to the window, pulling the curtain back a smidge to peer through the gap.

The men delivering the new furniture.

He should have known – they'd been delayed, most likely because Damien hadn't been present to go into the city to confirm the delivery that morning. He'd received a note the previous morning explaining that they were to come the next day, asking him to please confirm a time, which he'd apparently done. It had completely slipped his mind.

Then again, could he really be held accountable for that considering the root of his distraction?

He cleared his throat and walked back to her silently, the unrestrained, passionate man he'd been seconds before relatively concealed beneath as much of a calm, collected façade as he could muster. He helped her down onto the floor again and began to lead her to the door.

"But my clothes – "

"I'll bring them to you later."

There was no attempting to reason with him right now, the previous utterance explained that all too clearly. She clamped her mouth shut, biting her tongue. She could feel the disappointment stirring inside her, suddenly just as irritated at whoever it was at the door as he was. Who was she to say that such a moment would ever happen again? Unless she managed to forget her dressing gown again whilst taking a bath or fall on the floor and virtually expose herself to him she wasn't entirely sure that he would ever act on such feelings again. This time he'd been provoked to the point where resisting was not even an option - she'd managed to unintentionally drive him to the brink of his self control, if not his sanity, and then push him over the edge. Something told her that somewhere inside him he would be twice as careful from now on, that the two of them exploding with longing in such a primal, animalistic way would be tiptoed around and avoided carefully.

To be honest, she wasn't sure that she would be all right with that.

Upon reaching her bedroom he helped her onto the bed and left abruptly, all but slamming the door behind him as his mind formulated a method of veiling his current state lest the men downstairs discover just what they'd interrupted.

Left alone, she sat on the bed in her robe, her mind reeling from what had transpired mere minutes ago. She glanced over at the vanity and carefully stood to walk over, sitting down and gazing into the mirror.

The damp curls atop her head, which were now partially dry, were ruffled and messy. Her cheeks were still flushed bright red, her eyes alive and alert with a new sense of attentiveness. Her lips were rosy and swollen from his kisses, and she traced them with her finger, closing her eyes and imagining the feeling of them locked with his once more. If it was possible she felt like even more of a mess than she had before her bath. A soft sigh fell from her lips and she opened her eyes, staring into the face of her reflection for the second time that day.

For looking like such a disheveled, chaotic mess, she'd never felt more beautiful.


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Note: **I apologize for the delay on this chapter. I needed to give myself a few days off, I've been getting some very, very bad migraines lately. (You know, the ones that are right behind your eyes and spread into every other area of your face? …Yeeeah.) The break was much needed, and hopefully I'll be able to write the next chapter soon.

To some extent I'm not sure how frequently updates will appear in the coming weeks, not necessarily because I am busy, but because I have quite a great deal of research and planning to do before writing them. I will tell you that I've written out about 13 pages worth of plans, and I'm extremely excited to turn them into chapters to share with you! But for now, enjoy 21! C;

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><p><em>Dearest Madame and Meg,<em>

_I am unfortunately writing to tell you that I no longer require your assistance regarding my surviving on my own. Do not be alarmed, as I am perfectly well and in no danger. _

_All my love,_

_Christine_

No matter how many times she read it, it never seemed to make sense to her. She'd received it approximately two and a half weeks ago, returning home to find it had been slipped under her door. She had immediately recognized the handwriting as Christine's and all but snatched it up immediately, unfolding the paper and devouring the words on the page with a worried eye.

She sighed and set it on the table in front of her again, placing her hands over her eyes for a moment to try and clear the scrambled thoughts from her head. For an hour or so she'd been at it, trying to decipher the words in an attempt to find some sort of underlying hidden code that she wasn't even sure was actually there.

Perhaps that was the problem. She was convincing herself that there was obviously something wrong solely because she didn't want to believe that Christine could be managing on her own. Knowing that she depended on them was a way of being able to keep track of her; there was a sense of security in knowing that she hadn't actually been murdered somewhere on the streets or met her demise via starvation or disease. With every visit Antoinette was able to release a sigh of relief at the sight of her living and breathing form. Every time she left she could feel the insecure tension forming in the back of her neck and crawling down her spine, knowing that she would only have to wait a few more days to a week to see if she could feel that sense of relief one more time. It felt like a gamble to let her go, and now she was beginning to feel as though she had gambled one too many times and had come up short. Something about this screamed that she should be alarmed.

She ran a hand over her hair before picking up the parchment once more, her eyes scanning the text for what had to be the hundredth time as she prayed that perhaps this time she might find something different hidden beneath the emotionless front that they seemed to put on.

It wasn't like Christine. It wasn't like her to just send a note dismissing someone and telling them to not be apprehensive in such a bland, direct manner. Christine had never been a woman of few words when it came to things like this – any time she had to break such news to a person it often came with a thousand redundant apologies. This just didn't fit. How was she supposed to simply brush this aside and not be alarmed when the note did nothing to reassure her in the way it was apparently intended to?

"Are you still worrying over that, Maman?"

Meg had appeared in the doorway, her sweet little face showing evident signs of unease at the apparent distress her mother felt. Antoinette reached up to finger the locket that hung around her neck, the locket that Christine had given her the day that she'd shown up on their doorstep, back from the dead and delivering gowns. It had become somewhat of a consolation to her, something for her to hang onto when she felt anxiety looming overhead.

She didn't have to speak - Meg already knew the answer.

"I know that it troubles you, I, too, have felt that there isn't something completely… right about it. But dwelling on it isn't good for you either." Meg stepped further into the kitchen and sat down at the table across from her mother. "Perhaps we ought to trust it, after all it is undeniably Christine's writing. She wouldn't write to us saying anything that she didn't mean."

Antoinette sighed, nodding slowly. There was truth in the statement to some extent, but it did little to put her mind at ease. Meg stood from her place at the table and stepped around to her mother, wrapping her arms around her shoulders and hugging her before kissing her on top of the head.

"It's late. You should go to bed, Maman, and rest your mind." She nodded, staring at the candle in front of her solemnly, and Meg gave her shoulders one last squeeze before disappearing into the other room, the sound of her footsteps on the creaking stairs drifting down to Antoinette's ears, almost like a reminder that that her own bed was waiting for her.

Her eyes drifted from the flickering flame and back to the note before her. She stood, collecting it in one hand and the candle in the other before retreating to her parlour, the parlour where Christine had explained herself what seemed like such a short time ago, and sat down at her desk.

She pulled a piece of parchment from a drawer and dipped her quill in the ink, staring at the blank paper and formulating a way to start. After deciding she pressed the quill to the paper and began to write.

_Erik…_

This one would not be burned.

* * *

><p>A full day had passed since what he liked to refer to as the 'incident' in the bathroom. It seemed like a rather fitting title, considering how he assumed that neither of them had intended for such events to take place. Though whether he was using the word 'incident' to refer to their amatory exploits or to the deliverymen interrupting them he wasn't quite sure.<p>

What he did know, however, was that his mind had been chomping at the bit, so to say, ever since that moment. His hands still hadn't forgotten the sensation of her lovely body reacting to his touch, nor had his lips fully erased the sublime way they'd felt with hers pressing against them. Each time he had seen her since then had been a trial. It had been virtually impossible to keep himself from reaching out to touch her once more.

What was worse than trying to contain himself was wondering what would have happened if he didn't. Hadn't it been her that had essentially initiated all of it the last time? Hadn't it been her who had told him that she had missed him, who had uttered his name so pleadingly that he had felt as though there had literally been no choice but to give in?

He understood now that this was what kept him from touching her again. Hindsight, it was too simple to see that in his foggy state of mind he hadn't been able to interpret her intentions. She was lonely, broken. She wanted arms around her, she wanted a man to touch her and make her feel something again, even if it was just the brief sensation of her body coming to life in a way that it hadn't for so long. It would be something that she hadn't felt since the loss of her husband. It didn't matter that it was him, it just needed to be someone, and it just happened to be that he was there and so was she, and everything had been so perfectly convenient - from the way she had fallen onto the floor and brought him back into the room, to the way that those long, lithe legs of hers, dripping and shining with water, had greeted him so temptingly.

It was as if it had all been a trap, a trap to lure him into letting go of his self-control and comforting her through physical intimacy. His mind attempted to rationalize it hour after hour, creating solution after solution instead of considering that her intentions could have been completely honest. It wasn't that she felt anything for him. It wasn't, it couldn't be. He wouldn't let himself believe that it could be, for it would only turn around to spit in his face once more.

There had been something so startlingly obvious about it, something that screamed her true feelings for him, and in return he'd only managed to give away the secret of the extent of his undying fidelity to her. In that there was something humiliating, something that whispered in his ear about how apparent it was that she had the upper hand, that she barely had to lift a finger and he would give in to every whim. It was this obviousness that he couldn't handle, he wasn't able to accept that it was displayed so simply before him.

He'd been trying to ignore it ever since, deciding with firm insistence that there was more than what met the eye, that the unmistakable answer that her apparent emotional proclamation through physical action was nothing more than a lonely woman making a desperate plea for some sort of attention, apparently the sexual kind.

Thinking along these lines did nothing to make him any more optimistic about where their already mangled relationship was going. It made him feel used. Manipulated. Things that he hadn't felt since their time at the Opera. It only reiterated the sentiments that the negative voice in his head had been telling him since she'd arrived – she didn't want him out of love. She wouldn't want him out of love. How could she? No, her intentions for such primal emotion couldn't be because she truly wanted him with love. She wanted him to fill the blank space where Raoul should have been standing. He was her fall back plan, the man that she wanted only when she had no one else.

Even so, these thoughts did little to quell the fire that burned away at him beneath the calm façade. He still struggled to keep his composure in her presence and not whisk her off her feet with the intent to ravish her.

He stood at the window of the drawing room, peering out into the fading sky as he downed the last of the liquor in his glass. Even with the harsh reassurance of the negative voice nagging at him, he still couldn't bring himself to be completely confident in the thought. He didn't want to be completely confident in the thought. More than anything he wanted to think that she yearned to have him love her because she loved him, but he knew too well how easily he'd been scorned the first time.

Perhaps that was hope trying to plant its roots and grow up through the crack in the walk. It was trying to tell him that perhaps if he just let himself believe…

No. How could he do that when the last time he had let himself believe that she could love him he had been so horribly wrong? He had filled himself full of so much false hope that in the end it had been his ultimate undoing - he hadn't been willing to let go of it. He couldn't let himself become so dependent on such hope again. He couldn't handle that kind of hope destroying him again. He could handle that she had brought out the monster that was undoubtedly buried within him. He would always be a monster.

He swore that he wouldn't allow himself to become hope's victim a second time.

* * *

><p>She had managed to regain enough of her strength to move about freely on her own now without having to worry about suddenly becoming dizzy or her legs giving out. Her appetite had returned to some extent, she was eating more than she had been and could consume more than just fruit and broth without her stomach becoming terribly upset and wanting to heave it back up.<p>

Much to what she soon discovered was her dismay, she'd also come to the point where she was able to draw her own bath without having to alert him of her intentions.

Erik had given her consent to go about her business and do what she liked. She'd taken that as far as what was safe to assume with Erik, knowing that regardless of what she really would have liked to be doing that there were still some sort of unspoken guidelines hidden beneath the veil of that statement dictating what she could and could not do.

With that in mind, she'd chosen to play it safe and sit on the bench back of the house on the small brick patio. She'd gone back into the servant's house and – after sorting through the mess that had either been left by Damien when he'd fled or created by Erik upon discovering he'd fled - had dug around through one of the closets with the intent of finding something to do and had come up with a shabby embroidery hoop from God knows where. With a bit more rummaging around she found an interestingly shaped scrap of cloth shortly after. It hadn't taken her long to find a needle and embroidery thread, as she'd left some in her old bedroom in case she should ever need to fix any of her dresses.

She sat and stared down at the material, pushing the needle up through it and then back down, each new stitch feeding the creation of some abstract pattern. She had no intention of creating anything worthwhile. Well, she couldn't exactly when this material was so awkwardly shaped anyway. It was merely serving as something for her hands to do, something to keep her occupied as she passed the endless hours in the morning sun, the breeze occasionally stealing a curl to toy with as it brushed the back of its hand against her cheeks, leaving her wishing that instead of the wind it was the gentle touch of his hand grazing over her skin.

Two days… He'd been acting distant ever since, just as she had essentially been able to predict. Time was working against her. The longer they each refused to resolve the issue - whether it be physically or verbally - the more damage to whatever growth they'd achieved she felt she perceived. No tender moments, no soft caresses to her face, or burning gazes penetrating each other. More than that, it was as if he had decided that she was well enough to take care of herself simply because of what had transpired and rarely came to her room for anything. It was as if he was using her restored health as an excuse to keep himself from having to be around her. It did little to silence the flaming desire inside of her, if anything it heightened it purely because his sudden estrangement was keeping her waiting and gave it more time to build up. The times she did see him it flared and roared within her, clawing for some sort of release only for her to have to silence it.

It frustrated her, to say the least. Had she not made any and all feelings rather clear? Then again nothing concerning love was ever clear to Erik, she'd learned the hard way how his mind worked when it had to assume things. It was never steered in the proper direction and instantly lost any hope of ever going close to the proper direction after that point, then became so hopelessly lost that any attempt to reassure it and redirect it was in vain. She should have known that if she didn't spell it out that something like this would have happened.

But how much clearer did she have to make it? Was nearly making love on a sink not enough?

She stabbed the needle through the fabric once more, tugging the thread through forcefully to the other side, her jaw clenched. Until now she had thought that the two of them had made progress, that he had relinquished his hold on whatever kind of grudge he might have held against her for what she'd put him through and was merely grateful that they now had their chance without any third parties dictating either of their decisions. She thought that he had seen how he had uncovered feelings in her that had been ebbing away at her for so long since their separation, that he had seen the true intent of her actions. Apparently that unfortunate interruption had created more problems than simply pulling them from one another's yearning arms.

What she would give now to have felt those arms firmly clasped around her, to be sitting anywhere but on this damned patio sewing. Sewing! For the love of all things good, days before she'd been seconds away from what had held promise for being passionate lovemaking with a man she'd only ever dreamed of being with, and now, because of one minor fault that had apparently lifted the mask of desire from his eyes, he all but refused to touch her!

She would not play this game of him passionately resisting and relenting in a moment of weakness then turning around and virtually avoiding her as if she were everything in life that he so strongly despised.

She continued impaling the fabric with her needle, stitching swirls and other various shapes that held no significance to one another. So many emotions had been revived and heightened since she'd arrived here, emotions that she'd never expected to be able to act upon. Too many times she'd had love taken from her, and one too many times she'd turned love away. Was this love avenging itself for the way she'd so blatantly spurned it? If it was she found that she was nothing short of deserving. But had she not served her time in the two years that followed the fateful night below the Opera? Were none of the many nights of endless longing for his presence enough?

If not, then surely she was carrying out her punishment here, where every day she had to witness his actions as his graceful form made her heart swell with such terrible hunger and desire for the feel of it against her own, for his lips upon her skin…

For his love.

"There was something in the letterbox this morning that I thought might interest you."

Her thoughts were interrupted as she watched his hand place the opened envelope on the table beside her, her pulse quickening anxiously at the sound of his voice. She set her rather obscure embroidery on her lap, his eyes following it questioningly as he took in the bizarre shapes and meaningless black stitches. His gaze shifted to her hands as she pulled the letter from the envelope and unfolded it, instantly recognizing the writing.

_Erik,_

_I know that it may seem strange to suddenly receive such a letter when we've not corresponded for a while, and I have no doubts that the content of this message will shock you. I feel it is not my place to let you know, but by this point my heart tells me that I have no choice in the matter._

_Word of Christine's death has undoubtedly reached you by this point, and I pray that you are not still struggling with whatever grief you may have felt upon receiving such news. However, the news I am about to impart upon you may upset you more than the news of her death._

_Christine did not die in the fire. She lived, and hid amongst the rest of Paris whilst working in a dress shop, concealing herself as the city mourned her loss. She happened upon my doorstep one day with a delivery for Meg and myself, and it was through this that I learned of her being alive._

_She told us of what happened and we offered to help her with food and other necessities, which she accepted. She visited us as frequently as she could, however, that is where the reason in which I tell you this lies. Approximately two weeks ago I received a note from her, a note that had been slipped under my door, telling me that she no longer required our help, and that we should not fear for her. Alas, I have not been able to listen to this request, and I fear the worst for her. I know that it is unlikely that you have heard of her survival until now, but I do not know where else I can turn. Of all the people in the world you are the one who I would expect to be able to produce such information._

_If by chance you have heard of her whereabouts or you know anything of her, please make haste and respond as soon as you can to put my troubled mind at rest._

_Yours,_

_A. Giry_

She placed it back on the table and moved her embroidery there as well, preparing to stand when his words halted her.

"I took it upon myself to reply already, you've no need to worry about that." Her brow knit, perhaps mildly irritated that he'd done so. "What do you give me that look for? It was addressed to me, it's only right that I should reply to it."

"What did you say?"

"Why does it matter?"

Christine crossed her arms over her chest, obviously displeased with such a reply, her mind having shifted from her previous thoughts to something new, the previous ones still lingering but not at the forefront. Now was not the time for such trivial banter, not when putting Madame's mind at ease was the source of the conversation.

He seemed to sense this emotion radiating off of her if it hadn't been obvious enough from her stance, and chose to consent to her question and answered rather tritely.

"I told her she had nothing to worry about."

Christine's face showed her mild skepticism all too plainly.

"I say that with the utmost honesty, Christine."

She pursed her lips and glanced down at the letter on the table one more time before collecting her embroidery and beginning to step past him.

"Still you doubt me?" He was almost tempted to ask her what reason she had for not trusting his word, then realized all too soon that she had every reason in the world to be apprehensive of him when he recounted some of the more prominent details of their past. She must have been suspicious based on the content of the message, for it would not have been easy to reply so simply in a way that explained their entire situation, and had he been anyone else it wouldn't have.

"No. But I believe that I will write to her as well," she stated.

If anything, she merely wanted to know what details he had enclosed to her. Had he spoken of all that had happened, or had he merely written what he had told her just now? It wasn't necessarily that she didn't believe him, but when one's discovery could always potentially be at stake, even if Madame already knew, she preferred to handle such matters herself. It ceased to matter that she felt that she knew he could be trusted to handle such a situation wisely.

"I cannot help but feel that it would be best if you did not." His voice stopped her as forcefully as if he had reached out and physically touched her. "Now that Damien is not here to hand deliver any mail that you might wish to send you'll have to be more careful if you want to keep your _secret_."

His tone stung like a slap to the face. Something in it shattered what confidence she currently had in both retaliating and in deliberating confronting him about his recent behavior, or at least about eventually attempting to prove to him that she wanted something more than just a quick fling of delight to patch her wounded spirits. She would need time to build the proper courage, not just fleeting bravery that appeared and vanished the instant it was challenged. For now, she knew that continuing on with such petty arguing would do nothing to aid her cause.

She looked away, unable to meet his gaze, the shame of her deception all too fresh in her mind. She knew that he was right. Sending a letter could potentially risk some form of recognition by anyone who handled the mail. She couldn't really go by herself now, going into the city proved to be a risk in itself, and now with Damien missing who knew what kind of threats waited for her there.

Even in his determination to try and keep such thoughts from his mind, he couldn't keep his eyes from wandering over her face as the gears in her mind turned, obviously thinking over what she would be saying. He could remember how soft and lovely her cheeks were, or how plush and delicate her lips had managed to feel against his even as she ravished him with them hungrily and forcefully. He could remember the saccharine scent of her damp curls, and the way her warm breath danced across the sensitive, exposed skin of his face that wasn't covered by his mask. He could almost perceive the faint haunt of the trembling in his spine as she'd wrapped her legs about his hips and drew him to her, virtually begging for the contact that he eagerly ached to give her more than he would have liked to admit.

It was her voice, hollow yet still firm, that helped him to shake such delusions from his mind and bring him back to the present.

"Fair enough." She managed to meet his eyes once more, silently pleading for him to understand that what they were doing to each other was foolish. Regretfully, she couldn't bring her voice to say this or anything more, and upon realizing such he gave her one last glance, something almost sorrowful wrapped inside of it as though he was pleading for her to speak as well and keep him from going, and abruptly retrieved the letter from the table and turned to leave.

In watching him retreat her mind was revived from its apparent catatonic state, something spurring it into action and compelling her to try and stop him. Her previously slighted confidence began trying to stand on its feet again, making one last surge for an attempt at bringing up the conversation that could potentially clear what she could only assume was the misunderstood air between the two of them.

She took several steps after him as if she was going to suddenly say something to stop him, and he paused as if he understood this. He turned his head to his shoulder, looking over it just enough to catch her figure in his peripheral vision. He felt something stirring within him against his will. He soon realized that such a feeling was the desire to hear her beautiful voice form words that would hush the negativity inside him once again, words that would affirm that she truly wanted him, that he wasn't just a pawn in her journey towards acceptance of her loss.

He waited, perhaps more hopefully than he ought to have, for he could have anticipated the outcome that befell him with every passing second that she didn't speak. Perhaps he should have given her a second more, or urged her to voice what she was trying to find the words to say. But he didn't, he felt too certain that neither would work in his benefit.

It was clear that she wasn't going to say anything.

He left, and she remained on the patio clutching the edge of her tattered embroidery hoop, fingering the fabric as she watched him go, feeling completely and utterly helpless to stop him. She became aware of the threatening sting of tears behind her eyes, a horrid reinforcement of this fresh failure that she wanted so desperately to avoid. He'd been right again.

Of all the things he wanted to hear, she'd never known what to say.


	22. Chapter 22

With each day that passed, she could feel her hope for any kind of reconciliation dwindling away, as if someone were sitting there with a chisel ready to chip off the next piece each time she woke up every morning. Several more had come and gone, each one a reminder of that apparently fateful encounter they'd had. She knew that she needed to act, but there was something within her that hadn't been entirely sure how to go about doing it. No matter how much confidence she had, finding the right words to say seemed utterly impossible, perhaps because she was unable to forget the feeling that he'd instilled in her with what he'd told her that day in his music room. She was unable to forget how he'd said that she'd never known what to say to him. Before she had been defensive and had told herself that it wasn't true, that he had been the one who had wrongly accused her of creating all of the conflict. Now she understood that he hadn't been entirely in the wrong in doing so.

It shed an entirely new light on their past, and it opened her eyes to the fact that he hadn't been the only one to create a source of conflict in their relationship. He'd held her to an ideal that she'd been unable to meet, and she had done the same thing to him. She'd created an unmatchable image of what her Angel of Music was supposed to be and had been unable to accept that it could be anything less than what she'd envisioned in her mind. She'd been unable to put it behind her upon finding that he was actually a man, a dangerous, terrifying man at that… It was because of this preconceived ideal that she'd created that she'd fled to Raoul so hastily. Raoul had been safe and there was no mystery surrounding him; Raoul was concrete, there was no skepticism and no need for using her imagination that would ultimately – and had, ultimately – let her down.

She hadn't been ready to understand - she hadn't been ready for him.

But now she was, and now, more than ever, she felt as if some hidden, unseen entity was telling her that she wasn't going to be able to have him.

His words burdened her now. They were ghostly; she was unable to erase them from her memory. If ever there was a time that she felt that he was there, dancing taunting circles around her and singing songs inside her head, it was now. And every time she reached out to try and catch hold of his sleeve or his coattails and hang on without the intent of letting go he would narrowly avoid her grasp by skipping a step here or there, disappearing and turning up somewhere else as her mind frantically attempted to regain its sense of understanding and assess his new location. It was an illusion, like she was standing in a room of mirrors and had been rendered completely incapable of the ability to discern which image was really him.

She heard the sound of the drawing room door closing in the hall, and assumed that he was committing himself to whatever business he had to take care of for the day. While he'd given her the freedom to whatever met her fancy she'd taken it upon herself to resume the few chores she'd had before the catastrophe with Damien, perhaps because by busying herself she was able to create a source of distraction that kept her from mulling over and analyzing every minute detail of their encounter in the bathroom in an attempt to figure out why he now chose to dismiss her blandly each time he saw her.

She paused in the midst of cutting up the apple that she was planning to eat for her breakfast before baking a new loaf of bread, staring out the doorway and knowing that she needed to go in there at some point.

How hard could it be? He had to know that she wanted him. He had to know what she felt after everything… He had to! If the afternoon in the bathroom hadn't been enough then surely the few tender moments they'd had said something more than that she wanted him out of pure lust. And she knew – or at least she hoped that she knew – that somewhere inside he remembered every moment just as she did and he felt the same. Regardless of the façade that he put on to try and dissuade her from thinking that he was struggling just as much as she was, she knew his actions that day, specifically, and in days before, had spoken all too clearly in likeness for what he felt inside.

She would talk to him. The more she told herself that she knew he was fighting the same battle, the easier it was to feel that she could pull off such an attempt at reasoning with him. She would just walk into the drawing room and she would sit down and tell him everything that she had been thinking about, and then they would sort out every single matter that had ever been a troublesome nuisance that had hindered their relationship. He would apologize, she would apologize, and they would be happy. That was how it was supposed to work, right?

Something told her that with anyone but Erik that was how it would work.

This did little to shake the confidence she'd just managed to instill in herself. It was clear to her now how desperately she wanted things between them to be different, and how she didn't want to let anything get in the way of them living together peacefully, lovingly, even. She knew that whatever was left of his love for her had not died, even if it was merely a ragged, worn scrap full of holes and tears. All it needed was gentle, patient mending and it would be as durable and resilient as it had been before. There would still be stains and scars where one could see how and where it had been patched, and she knew that they would always be there, but they would simply be a part of the story. They would be an eternal reminder that someone had cared enough to reach out and fix it when it was at its worst, even if that person had been the reason for such damage in the first place.

She would show him that she cared enough to be that person.

She placed the knife down on the table and stepped around it, heading to the doorway. She paused there after turning the corner, her hand lingering on the doorframe as she stared down the hall towards the drawing room door, slightly nervous over the reality of what she was doing. She took in a deep breath and began her way there, her eyes never leaving the door. Upon reaching it, she stared down at the doorknob. Slowly, she placed her hand on it, staring at it as if she understood that as soon as she crossed over this threshold that there would be no going back. Things would be different after this, be the outcome good or bad.

With a swift movement she turned the knob and stepped in before her mind had any more time to protest. He sat at his desk writing and shuffling through some papers - the way she usually found him – and paused only briefly as he became aware of her presence before continuing on with what he was doing before she'd so promptly burst through the door.

He detested how easily her appearances could jump start his nerves. Even from so many feet away he swore he could smell the soft scent of her skin and her curls, or that he could feel her breath tickling the nape of his neck and sending shooting chills down his spine. Did she know how difficult she made all of this for him? How unbearably torturous it was to exist in her presence and remember so vividly that brief taste of bliss she'd granted him?

She cleared her throat and smoothed her curls, regaining what she'd lost of her composure, and slowly walked over to where he sat. She held her hands behind her back as she quietly stood a few feet away.

"Would you like anything this morning? I could make you some tea, or bring you something to eat if you'd like."

He looked up briefly, willing himself to keep his eyes off of her face and her form. He didn't need to make things any more difficult for himself than they already were. He pursed his lips carefully, almost as if he was contemplating taking her up on the offer, then looked back down at his paper and began to write again. She understood this as meaning that he wasn't going to say anything, but his voice caught her off guard and for a moment she was looking forward to hearing what he was about to say to her.

"No, I'm quite all right, thank you."

That is, until he said it, of course.

As if she couldn't have guessed that he would provide her with such an answer. She smirked, knowing that she shouldn't have expected anything ground breaking like a request for tea, juice, water, and milk alongside an extravagant three-course breakfast made from everything in the pantry, but she knew that he often drank tea and thought perhaps that she'd at least win there.

Her mind now reminded her that she needed to broach the other subject, but she couldn't find the exact words to say and the time that she was wasting was doing nothing but working against her.

"Is there something else you want to say, Christine?"

To some extent she was actually thankful that he had prompted her, otherwise she wasn't entirely sure that she would have gone through with it. Her eyes moved from his form to stare at the desk, focusing on the bottle of ink. She could feel the burning flutter in her stomach that occurred simply from being in his presence now, all her desires heightened by the adrenaline that made her heart pound so fervently within her chest. He paused from writing and turn to look up at her lingering form expectantly, telling her he was waiting without having to say a word.

She swallowed dryly and cleared her throat, her eyes moving from the floor to his form.

"Yes, actually - "

"Then say it, Christine."

Her brow knit and she shot a glare at him, declaring to him all too clearly that she had intended to tell him and there had been no need to interrupt her. It was almost scolding, and until now he had wondered if she had ever been capable of such a look. Now he knew.

"About the other day, Erik," she said, noticing the way he visibly tensed at the mention of it, "I feel like things have – "

"I'm very busy right now, Christine," he interjected, clearing his throat and turning back to the desk where he began to sort through his papers again. He seemed as if somewhere deep down he was mildly flustered, almost like he couldn't handle talking of the situation. She attempted to continue on as if he hadn't interrupted her at all.

"-… like things have suddenly become - "

"Please, Christine, I have business to attend to."

"But Erik – "

"Christine."

His eyes stared straight ahead into the desk, very nearly boring holes into the wood, his jaw clenched uncomfortably as he held his quill in what looked to be a death grip. He wasn't sure if he was berating himself for cutting her off when she could have said something to right all of this or for being unable to listen to her and confront the matter the moment that he'd realized what she was trying to do. He'd wanted so much to hear her tell him what had been going through her mind, but now when it threatened to become real and potentially be the opposite of what he longed for he couldn't go through with it. He wasn't ready for the rejection that he was positive she would be dealing out again. He would rather suffer through this silent torture than hear her tell him what had been her feelings behind her actions.

There was no questioning his tone. After one lingering glance, looking as if she was going to loiter there and wait to continue the conversation once he'd finished his work, she turned around and began towards the door. She stepped out quietly and began towards the kitchen again.

It was by no means a defeat, in her opinion. Her confidence hadn't taken a beating the way it had before. By preparing herself for such an encounter she'd managed to reinforce her courage. And after bringing it up once she realized how capable she was of saying the words, she just had to find a way to make him listen. Now it was only a matter of when this conversation would actually take place. She knew that if she had stayed and attempted to reason with him now that she would only end up causing more damage than what she managed to repair, it had been the smarter decision to walk away from him. She needed to approach him at a time when he wasn't preoccupied and couldn't just send her off with the excuse of having something to do that he needed his full attention for.

She stood at the table once more, cutting up the apple and placing a slice in her mouth, her body one place but her thoughts another. She sighed and set to begin about the tasks she needed to finish for the day, attempting to formulate a new opportunity for a meeting that would have to be successful.

There would be a next time, and when it came she wasn't going to take no for an answer so easily.

* * *

><p>Hours rolled by without a word being passed between the two of them, the house consumed in tense, thick silence.<p>

Each went about their own way, secretly consumed by thoughts of the other.

From every window in the house one could spot the sun slowly beginning to sink lower and lower in the sky, creeping in through the glass to paint the walls in brilliant shades of furious orange and gold.

* * *

><p>She turned the page, her eyes glancing over the text in the book before her. With a soft sigh she placed it down on the vanity, still open, and looked up into the mirror at her reflection for a moment.<p>

She'd changed from her day clothes and now sat in her corset and pantalets, with her dressing gown tied snugly at the waist, shielding such attire from any eyes but her own. Earlier in the day she'd tied her curls back in a long French braid that she now pulled over her shoulder, her fingers toying with the end of it absentmindedly as her eyes scanned the piece before her, reading the words but forgetting them the instant they moved on to the next line. Anyone standing by would have known all too easily that her mind was elsewhere.

Her chance at confrontation hadn't come throughout the day, he'd been shut inside the drawing room since this morning and she'd been completely unable to bring him out in any way. She hadn't even gone back in to ask if he'd wanted tea – instead she'd just gone about her work while trying to create just what she was going to say to him the moment when she would, hopefully inevitably, have the opportunity handed to her.

She'd concocted what she thought to be a brilliant little speech, something that would make it difficult for him to ignore or simply brush away as if he'd taken it with a grain of salt. In her mind, things worked out beautifully, only to find that same mind remind her that reality would be much less cooperative.

Her eyes moved back to the book and her finger moved to trace over the lines on the page. A book of poems – she'd always loved poetry. She wasn't sure where Erik had found such a book, for the original print was in English but off to the side it had been translated back into French. Perhaps he'd made a venture somewhere in their time apart, or perhaps that man he called the Daroga had given it to him for some reason or another. Regardless, she was glad she'd found it in the spare hour that she'd had after finishing all of her chores. It had managed to occupy the remaining hours until she had to tuck herself beneath her blankets and succumb to sleep.

At this rate she wasn't sure that she would be able to talk to him today, which made her stomach sink with dread. Having the wait for this potential clash consistently prolonged would either make her more fervent in trying to bring it up, or would make her confidence slowly shrink away until she gave up.

She didn't like the images that appeared in her mind in association with the latter. A life of silence was too unsettling. This little skirmish for resolve would be happening sooner rather than later.

She was about to turn the page when she heard the sound of his footsteps on the stair, evidently retreating to either his study or his bedroom for the remainder of the evening. Her heart leapt and the voice inside her urged her to speak, virtually screaming at her to seize her opportunity.

It was now or never.

"Erik?" She managed to keep her poise, listening as the sound of his footsteps died away just outside her door.

"Do you need something?" He was unsure of why she would call out to him for any other reason, and hoped that it was merely because she wanted a glass of water or some other strange request – though he wasn't quite sure why she would need him to do such things for her when she was completely capable of helping herself.

"Could you come in here for a moment?"

He froze, his face completely blank. The last time she'd been on the other side of a door and had asked him to come in she'd been half – if not completely – naked. He glared down at his hand on the doorknob that was apparently all too eager to comply with her simple request, uncertain as to whether he should be disgusted with himself for thinking that he might be walking in on such a sight again or for almost hoping that such might be the case and with her mutual consent he'd be able to relinquish the excruciating hold he'd put on his self-control.

His mind told him to say no, but he watched as that damned hand turned the knob and opened the door, his legs following in suit and stepping into the room. His eyes had remained on the floor until he had entered the room, whereupon he raised his glance to look at her.

Well, at least she actually had something _under_ the dressing gown this time…

It took everything he had to keep his eyes from roaming over her. The stray curls at the base of her hairline that fell into her face, her rosy cheeks and bright eyes. The gentle curve of her jaw as it sloped into her lily white neck, descending further and further to that magnificent collarbone that directed him all to easily to her chest. He stopped himself before his imagination became too carried away.

As was evident, such a presentation didn't put him in the most comfortable state of mind, and while he wanted everything but keeping a leash on himself he found that restraining himself was all he was able to do. It was infuriating to him that the mere sight of her was capable of rendering him virtually incapable of any coherent thought or action.

He cleared his throat almost painfully and forced his eyes to remain locked on hers, refusing to stray a second time for fear of what might happen if they did.

"What is it, Christine?"

She hesitated before speaking, but kept her composure even in the midst of the horrendously tense atmosphere weighing down upon her shoulders, urging her to simply stand up and go to him, to show him what she wanted him to know rather than tell him.

"We need to talk… about… the other day."

His lips pursed and she noticed his grip tightening around the doorknob. That wasn't good. But she couldn't help but smirk at the sight. It was ridiculous to her that even broaching the subject – which was obviously unavoidable and completely necessary in order to make any progress – was essentially a misstep in trying to sort all of this out.

"I don't know what more needs to be said."

Her face contorted in a look of confused disbelief. What on earth could he mean by that? Of course there was more that needed to be said! She cast aside the words she'd prepared, now running purely on what came to mind.

"Erik, have you not noticed the painfully obvious distance that we've managed to create between ourselves since that day?"

"If we've been acting distant I believe it's because of more than just one fleeting encounter that came about in a moment of _disillusioned passion_."

What did he mean by that? Was he trying to pin everything that had happened on her? He was trying to make her look like a villain! There was no doubt that he had intended to hit her with those words, specifically the last ones that he'd uttered with such contempt. What did he take her for, a manipulative leech that was only using him out of lust to make some sort of emotional profit?

Beside that particular point, she quickly recognized what other obstacle he was referring to: their past. It was too clear – it hung between the both of them like a startlingly lucid warning about the consequences of the two of them trying to make amends. And while he was right in saying that their past had created a considerable amount of alienation between the two of them he couldn't deny that things had slowly been patching themselves up, intentionally or not, and their relationship had been on its way to being less awkward and defensive.

The longer she sat there in silence, apparently stunned by what he'd said to some degree, the more he began to feel that the conversation was coming to a close and there was nothing else to say. Truthfully he just wanted to be out of the room so that he could remove the foggy desire from his mind and resume his thoughts of what he'd convinced himself was true about the intent behind her actions that day.

He was comfortable telling himself that such thoughts were the truth; there was something oddly secure and safe about them even if he wanted with everything he had to believe something else. It was easier to believe that she couldn't want him because of what he was, that she hadn't acted out of love and had simply taken advantage of the situation that she'd been presented with. It was easier to believe what he'd been told all his life.

It was less painful to believe that than to know that she truly wanted him out of love and he was pushing her away.

"I think… that we are done," he stated abruptly. With that he turned and began to walk out the door.

Christine sat at the vanity watching him go with her mouth hanging open in the slightest, still somewhat dumbfounded and unable to send forth a witty retort in retaliation. Her mind had been right, of course – things hadn't worked out beautifully and effortlessly in the way that she'd hoped they would.

The click of the door shook her from her state of incredulousness, and she looked over at the book on the top of the vanity, her hand resting over it almost protectively, his footsteps trailing down the hallway ringing in her ears like blatant mockery over what threatened to be yet another failure. She turned and gazed out the window at the sun that was slowly sinking in the sky, the pink and orange light coloring her porcelain cheeks.

Her mind drifted to Raoul. The sunset…

She stood, the book still clutched tightly in one hand, and walked over to the window. Raoul wouldn't want this for her, he wouldn't want her to sit alone in her bedroom every night, recollecting all her failures and berating herself for them when she was capable of finding happiness with someone else. He would want her to move on and find that happiness.

He did want her to, she could feel it.

Her eyes remained locked on the pink and orange sky, and she placed her fingertips against her lips and then to the glass in a final farewell, lingering lovingly before pulling the curtains closed and turning to focus on the door, her brow knitting in frustration once more as she began towards it with the intent of conquering his doubt.

She placed her hand on the knob, turning it and pulling it open rather forcefully, stalking out into the hallway towards his room, crossing over into the part of this journey where she couldn't be certain of what direction they were about to take. But even while she didn't know where the rest of this evening would take them, she did know one thing.

There was no going back now.


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Note: **I'm going to start by apologizing for how long it took me to finish this update… But in my defense, the rest of July was hell, August took over my life with moving into college, and adjusting to that change gave me little time to sit down and fully finish this chapter. I can't promise you that updates will come quickly in the future, so I'm not going to. Unfortunately, that's the life of a double major, let alone a double major in music and theatre.

I do greatly appreciate your reviews asking for more in my absence and I do see them, I do read them, and I do love every fav. and subscription to the story! Thank you all for your continued support. Always remember, Absolution will never be abandoned, ever. I will see it through to the end, you have my word!

That being said, here is the long awaited Chapter 23.

* * *

><p><em>I will not fail.<em>

The thought repeated in her head with every thud of her frustrated feet against the floor as she stalked down the hall, her mind completely lost to the delirium of passionate emotion that he'd ignited within her. She was not angry, per se, but there was a terrible, vexed desperation coursing through her veins that compelled her into action and empowered her, providing her often hesitant limbs with the blind courage they needed to find their way to him.

So strong was her focus on her intent to make him listen and understand her that every other element of her surroundings seemed to whiz by in a blur, the door appearing before her as if it had only taken a split second to walk the length of the hall from her room to his.

Perhaps it was because she was oblivious to the possible nervousness that she should be feeling with what she was about to do and how she was going to do it, but the door held no ominous, looming aura as it seemed to earlier in the day or any other time she tried to confront him. The doorknob did not create any sort of unsettling churning of nervousness within her stomach. There was no hesitation in grabbing it and opening the door with great purpose as she stepped inside, instantly demanding the attention of its sole inhabitant.

He whirled around with a start, glaring at her in alarm as she stood just inside the doorway, an apparently forgotten book clutched within a white-knuckled grasp in one hand while the other, which held nothing, was clenched into a stiff fist at her side. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes brilliantly wild and her skin radiating the warm glow of the pink and orange light that shone upon her through the window. It was all too easy for him to notice the way the tops of her breasts struggled to accommodate her quickened breathing beneath the confines of her corset, and he could feel his stomach churning at the sight, though whether it was with nervousness or dread he couldn't be certain.

"We are _not_ done."

This sudden outburst of apparent fearlessness caught him by surprise, for while he had always known Christine to be rather stupidly impulsive – a trait that worked both for her and against her - he'd rarely witnessed her acting so boldly out of aggravation. Even during that night below the Opera… While he'd seen her at her most passionate, he rarely saw her look as if she was absolutely furious over something that wasn't life-threatening.

It was almost as if they'd completely switched roles and he'd just been the one to pull a mask from her true identity and she was the one with the reason for exploding with rage.

He wasn't sure of how to handle such a situation; usually it was he whose temper was provoked. It was unsettling not having the knowledge of how to handle her when she was angry over something that didn't involve having her precious boy in a noose.

"…Christine – "

"No," she cut him off, taking a slow, threatening step in his direction. He quirked his eyebrow and pursed his lips, his eyes never leaving her form. He raised his chin, sizing her up and trying to discern where this audacity was coming from. "You've had your turn to speak."

"Excuse m-"

"No! It's my turn!" She snapped, almost sounding as if she was legitimately offended that he had tried to say something, her finger jabbing into her chest as she pointed at herself. "And you know, this probably wouldn't be happening if you'd allowed me to take it earlier!"

He stood silent at his place by the window, merely staring at her, his eyes a bit wider and his face looking a bit more startled than he would have liked. He hadn't been aware that she still packed this much fire under that delicate little façade. Even in the argument they'd had before she hadn't been this recklessly fearless, she'd spoken her mind - but this? This was an entirely new level. It was as if she was looking for a fight, she was pursuing something this time. For the first time he understood that she was no longer afraid of him at all. She'd taken it upon herself to make it known that they were equals.

She stood with her jaw clenched, her hand having fallen back to her side and resuming the tight fist that it had been in before. She swallowed dryly and closed her eyes, attempting to sort out all of the words inside the jumble of thoughts tangled inside her head.

Unfortunately it was hard to think of what to say when her mind wouldn't stop shrieking at her to say something and fill the dead silence in the air. This only managed to make her a bit more flustered, mostly out of frustration with herself. She'd barged in here to try and make a statement and now she felt the only statement she was making was that she was an overhasty fool.

"Take your turn then," he stated quietly, almost mocking, smirking as he placed his jacket over the back of the chair nearby. Her silence gave him a bit more confidence and a moment to regain his hold on his composure and the entire situation. It gave him time to recover from the shock that had been – what he had considered to be – the rather unprovoked explosion of her temper.

She should have known that he would use that time against her – he always managed to do that somehow. She cleared her throat and straightened up, looking him in the eyes as she finally opened her mouth to speak.

"Why?" She quietly demanded. "Why are you doing this?"

He said nothing.

"What didn't I do this time that you must push me away? That I have not proven myself to you?"

Still his voice did not come.

"What is it about me now that you think my intentions behind my actions to be so _disillusioned_?"

In that simple, quiet demand she had managed to use what had once been his own words against him and shame him with them. Whether or not it was her intention he did not know, but what he did know was how real the actuality of his egregious misconception truly was.

His silence was beginning to make her head reel. Erik was not supposed to be silent; he was supposed to be the one whose temper flared instead of hers. But perhaps this was good for her, it was a way of releasing all of the pent up emotions that she'd been trying to sort out for so long. The grief she'd concealed for Raoul's death, the fear she'd swallowed every day when she'd walked out into the city on her own, and the frustration that she virtually lived every day in Erik's presence were suddenly spilling out all at once because of one singular trigger – his silence.

"Can you not see that, for whatever reason, fate has given us a second chance?" Her voice had risen slightly in volume but still managed to remain deadly calm. "Are you truly so content to waste it?"

His eyes met hers for the briefest moment before falling away to the wall behind her, then the floor as he ran a hand over his hair, clenching his jaw slightly. Still, in that one, fleeting glance she swore she could see the thousands of pleading nevers that he was keeping his voice from unleashing.

Why wouldn't he say them?

She'd never found silence so infuriating before. Unsettling, perhaps, but never something to become angry over. It had always been something peaceful - something that she could retreat to when the only thing that seemed to surround her was chaos. Now it did nothing but make her want to scream at the top of her lungs just to keep it from deafening her in the way it was now.

Her eyes never left his face, watching his every move as if she were some sort of predator tracking the movements of its prey. She swallowed dryly, praying for some sort of reaction from him. At this rate she didn't even care if she provoked his temper, she just needed him to acknowledge what she was telling him. She needed to make him understand, regardless of the lengths she would have to go to make it happen.

"Erik, why do you refuse to see the love I'm wanting to show you?"

She saw his lips purse with a sudden intake of air and the way his hands turned to fists the moment she'd uttered the words. For a moment she thought that he was about to speak, and in her desperation allowed her hopes to rise too high, for they were only crushed the moment he feebly turned away to stare out the window behind him, his voice still absent.

She couldn't take it anymore.

"**Say something!**" Her voice exploded at an alarming volume, raw with the emotion that she could no longer keep a grip on as frustrated tears welled in her eyes, her breath leaving her body in soft, unsteady gasps. She felt the fury erupt beneath what little she had left of a cool, collected façade, and, before she knew what she was doing, with one swift, spontaneous movement she had unthinkingly hurled the book in her hand violently towards him as she'd released the words, only awakened from whatever angry delirium she'd been manipulated by the moment she heard the loud crack of the object against his back as it struck him sharply between the shoulders.

If she hadn't managed to provoke his voice she'd at least managed to snag his attention again, for he had immediately whirled around and planted his gaze directly on her. She was certain that his temper was boiling behind that gaze, for his entire body was tense, but he did not lash out in the way that she would have expected him to in response to such behavior. Slowly but surely, she could see the weary grief behind those eyes as it came forth to try and sequester the anger that had undoubtedly been violently present moments before. He took a step forward and reached with both hands to clutch the back of the chair until his knuckles became frighteningly white, his fingers curling around it in an unnervingly ferocious iron grip. His face fell to the floor, his head hanging exhaustedly on his shoulders.

The thoughts in his head were too rampant and wild to act on anything. They were debilitating. One moment they were screaming at him that she had essentially just told him she loved him, and that he should go to her. He should take the simple steps across the room to hold her and tell her he had always loved her. All of these were contradicted by the doubtful ones, the ones that told him not to believe it, that he could never believe it, or the furious ones that whispered furiously in his ear: _"how dare she?"_ How dare she say it now, how dare she withhold it from him, how dare she… He ought to be bellowing with rage. But he couldn't. He couldn't sort through the tangled mess of knots in his head long enough to choose a course of action.

He couldn't bear seeing her standing there, the picture of perfection in front of him, uttering words he'd only dreamed of hearing. He couldn't believe that it was real while knowing that he was physically unable to bring himself to do anything about it.

To be completely honest, she would have rather had it that he had come at her screaming in a fit of rage instead of standing there holding it in. Realizing now that she had managed to make him do more than just stand there gaping out the window, she didn't regret throwing a childish tantrum and flinging her book at him. If it would elicit an honest response then she would gladly retrieve it and throw it again.

But no matter how much she wanted a response, she was not prepared for the one that she was given.

"Go."

With that one, small word, she felt as if all the air had been brutally ripped from her body with one forceful blow to her being, leaving her reeling and confused. Hadn't she just told him what he had wanted her to say for so long, and he was telling her to leave? This had to be him being stubborn, he didn't truly want her to leave. He wouldn't tell her to leave him, not when she was finally able to be with him free of any other possible hindrances or emotional chains, he wouldn't…

"Erik, please, I – " her voice was suddenly small again, almost like that of a child, pleading desperately for the words that would erase her worries and mend her battered heart. It stung his ears, burning and making his heart heavy with regret. Everything was suddenly as real it had been in that moment below the Opera. Every emotion he had lived through in that night came flying back, coursing through his body and feeling as startlingly real as they had once been years before. In that moment he had felt that he understood the message behind her actions, but now to hear her actually say such a thing…

"Go," he said once more, his voice firmer and more demanding, but still with an underlying tone of instability that betrayed him.

Now it was her turn to stand silent, for she couldn't bring her mind to form a thought coherent enough to be worth vocalizing. She felt her lip begin to quiver as her eyes threatened to spill tears that she wanted to work so hard to keep from view. She wanted to go to him, to grab him and shake him and yell and scream until he understood her. She wanted to hold him, to beg for him to tell her that he didn't mean it. She wanted him and nothing else, but he was sending her away again… It killed her to realize she had to use the word "again." Again meant she'd felt this pain before.

Again meant this was not the first time that this had happened.

After standing in thick, tense silence, she finally found her voice and spoke once more.

"You can never break another's heart without breaking your own at the same time," she murmured quietly. He looked up at her slowly, each of their eyes locked on the other's for an undeterminable amount of time until he slowly turned away from her and faced the window again, running his hand over his hair, the other placed against the window pane as if he needed it to keep him from toppling to the floor.

"Don't send me away again, Erik, please. Don't do this to me," she paused, and then continued quietly. "Don't do this to yourself."

What emotion she had managed to provoke in him with her previous actions was being forcefully contained, though she could tell he was struggling with it. Somewhere inside it was wrestling to break free, but he wasn't letting it. She knew it, she knew he couldn't possibly want her to leave. If she just waited long enough he would turn around and tell her to stay. She just needed to keep telling herself that and soon enough it would happen. She waited for him to say something, but with each passing second she realized the only sound she would be met with was her soft, ragged breaths as they carefully made their way to her ears, echoing mockingly about the room.

Why wasn't he telling her to stay?

Each second that passed only beat at her confidence, slowly making her heart swell with defeat just as the tears swelled in her eyes, filling to the brim and slowly spilling over. With a discouraged heart she attempted to collect herself and reluctantly turn to leave until her eyes landed on the book that sat on the floor. She would need to take that with her and put it back in its rightful place on his shelf, especially after she'd abused it in such a way.

However, the moment her small hand touched the binding and picked it up from the floor, she knew she wasn't going to be leaving. Not yet. She opened it gingerly to a page whose corner she had folded earlier as a marker. With her back to him, she gripped the book tightly in her hands and willed her voice to emerge.

_I will not fail._

"The meadow and the mountain with desire gazed on each other," she began softly, "til a fierce unrest surged 'neath the meadow's seemingly calm breast," her eyes moved over the words that danced about on the pages, illuminated in hues of pink and orange, "and all the mountain's fissures ran with fire."

Erik's gaze never left the obscure point on the far off landscape that he was so desperately focusing on to try and distract himself from her presence, though he could feel the way his mind cried out and his heart ached with every line she recited. His jaw clenched, determined to remain firm in the decision he'd made, determined to save himself from the agony he would have had to undoubtedly face had he accepted her sentiments.

"A mighty river rolled between them there." She took a few more steps to the center of the room while he remained at the window, his tall figure beginning to cast a shadow across one of the orange walls. "What could the mountain do but gaze and burn?" His fist clenched. "What could the meadow do but look and yearn, and gem its bosom to conceal despair?"

She glanced over her shoulder to take in the sight of him still frozen at the window, then cautiously turned around to begin towards him carefully in small steps. "Their seething passion agitated space, till lo! the lands a sudden earthquake shook, the river fled: the meadow leaped," she now stood just behind him to his side, and he turned his head slightly to glance at her out of the corner of his eye. She closed the book and placed it on the chair. "And took the leaning mountain in a close embrace," she murmured as she reached out to touch his arm, only for him to turn to her and stare into her face, mesmerized by the way the slowly sinking sun painted patterns across her ivory complexion. With careful hesitation she moved to wrap her arms around him, to which he did not openly respond, but merely stood completely still, staring past her to the opposite wall, utterly dumbfounded and exhausted by the emotions raging within him. He felt numb.

"I want you," she whispered quietly, almost brokenly, feeling his body become even more rigid if it were possible. She heard the sharp intake of air that filled his lungs, only reasserting the apparent discomfort he was currently feeling. "I want you and the way you walk, the way you tie your cravat… I want your voice always around me, and to hear it every morning when I wake and each night before I fall asleep." She took in the sound of his heart pounding against his ribcage, thudding along at a constant rhythm. She closed her eyes, her mind filling with different scenes with every beat. "I want you for the far off, distant way your eyes look when you're staring at some unknown speck on the wall, I want you for the way you fiddle with your pen when you're writing something important." She stepped back and moved to take his hands in hers, staring down at them and taking in every single detail, running her thumbs over the backs of them. "I want you because of the times where I've seen these hands that so often explode with such intense fury so gently stirring a cup of tea as if they didn't remember the passion they were capable of." In the silence that followed, she tentatively pulled them to her lips and kissed along each knuckle, then turned them over and held them to her face, kissing each palm and looking up at him.

His head slowly fell to the side as his eyes drifted back down to her face, unable to understand how he could feel both the staggering awareness of every touch and a strange distant numbness at the same time. While ashamed to admit to his confident determination being defeated, he could feel tears burning behind his eyes and threatening to pool where they would test the boundaries and potentially spill over. He was unable to explain how this simple, flawless human being always managed to reduce him to the likes of a broken child. It didn't matter how many walls he put up to try and keep her out, she would always pass by them as if they weren't even there at all and find her way into his heart where he could never turn her away.

She pulled his hands from her face and held them in front of her again before gently coaxing him into motion and guiding him to sit upon the edge of the bed. He stared back at her, his mind telling him that he shouldn't be doing this, he shouldn't be letting himself fall under her spell. He shouldn't, but he wanted to. He could do nothing but watch as she straddled him, one knee sinking into the quilt on either side of his hips, her own hovering just above his where he could occasionally feel the fabric of her bloomers brushing against his trousers, sending his blood barreling through his veins and throwing his mind into an even deeper fog.

"I want you, all of you, and only you," she whispered quietly as she cupped his cheeks in her hands, her thumbs gently brushing over the false cheeks of the mask. She watched as his eyes wandered over her face and his hands slowly moved to linger on her shoulders, almost hovering there as if he were afraid to touch her. To some extent he was; he was afraid to acknowledge this as reality for fear that it would simply be wrenched violently from him in the way so many other things he held dear had been. "For so long I've wanted everything about you, but I never thought I would have the opportunity to have it again," she whispered, her eyes searching his face for some sort clue regarding the thoughts running through his mind. "It was you - it was always you, even when I was too blind to understand it," she murmured, running a hand over his hair to rest at the nape of his neck. "And now that you're here with me, I'm not going to let you be taken from me so easily again."

That she had wanted him had never been a question; it had simply been a matter of acknowledging the truth of the matter. It had been a matter of realizing that she wanted him even if it was in the indicators she couldn't pinpoint or the feelings that she'd thought she couldn't label.

She loved Raoul. She still loved Raoul, and she would always love Raoul. But Erik did not only hold her love, he held the entirety of her being simply by existing. He held every emotion from love to hate, he made her burn with need and weep with grief at the slight of his hand. Her existence depended on his. It had already been proven that she could survive without Raoul – but had there ever been a time when she had truly been able to survive without Erik? Even in the days that she'd spent as the happy wife of a Vicomte she'd anxiously glanced over the paper each day, her stomach sinking further and further with uneasy angst until she could safely put the paper down and declare she had not seen the obituary that he had ordered the Persian man to print upon his death. The end of his life would have also meant the beginning to the slow, bleak end of hers.

She carefully moved one hand to touch his mask with the intent to remove it, and he reached up with great immediacy to stop her. After a moment of the briefest hesitation, she leaned down carefully and pressed her lips to his forehead, the mask cool against her mouth. She could feel the slight shudder that rippled down his spine, and how his hands rested upon her with more weight now. She pulled back and looked into his face, watching as his golden eyes slowly opened to stare up at her like a frightened child with a heavy, burdensome secret, as if he knew that the moment she removed the mask she would once again flee and never return. He couldn't make the same mistake twice.

"I want _you_."

He released a ragged breath and allowed his arms to circle around her completely, pulling her to him tightly and holding her there with no intent of letting her go as his grief poured from his being, tears rolling down his cheeks behind the mask. She pressed her face into his hair and held him as he clung to her, closing her eyes tightly and gently kissing the top of his head, stroking his hair as his trembling form shuddered against her quietly.

Those three simple words had arguably meant more to him than anything else she had ever said to him. She wanted him. She _wanted _him. She didn't need him, she didn't have to have him… but she wanted him. She had the choice, and she had chosen to want him. The real him. Not the man with the mask, she wanted him for what he truly was. She knew he was a monster yet she wanted him any way. He wasn't sure that he could describe how greatly such a thought moved him.

She carefully moved to pull off his mask once more and this time he let her, though the moment he felt the stale air of the room hit his face he felt an instant sense of violent insecurity. She could see the worry flash in his bleary eyes and immediately dropped the mask on the bed. He reached for it, but she took his face in her hands and turned his head back to her, re-focusing his attention in an attempt to make him forget it all together. He could do nothing but stare up at her, his mouth hanging open slightly and his brow knit in what was, undeniably, fear. Even after the many times she'd seen his face throughout their past he was still incapable of understanding. How could this creature be staring down upon him so sweetly, how could she do so without feeling the slightest bit of disgust? How could she look upon him with such, dare he venture to say, love, when he had been the sole reason for an inexcusable amount of horror in her life?

In that moment he could suddenly feel the reality of the situation he found himself in. He could feel the weight of her small body as she sat upon him, he could feel her soft hands upon his wet cheeks and the startling, warm proximity of her body. He could feel the slender, elegant dip of the small of her back as it curved into the graceful, plush flesh of her backside. He could smell the sweet, luscious fragrance of her porcelain skin and wanted nothing more than to reach out and press his lips to it, knowing how incredibly soft and velvety it had to be.

He knew he should do something – he needed to move, or speak. He swallowed dryly and clamped his mouth shut, still staring up at her in complete awe. Carefully, with reluctant insecurity, he moved his hand to touch her cheek, watching as her eyes followed the motion, then looked back to his face. He gently pulled her face to his and lingered just before her lips, questioning his confidence in what he was doing. It absolutely wasn't a question of whether or not he wanted to, every fiber of his being screamed that he wanted to – it was the sudden realization of what all of this was headed for that made his heart beat faster and faster with anxiety. His hands shook slightly against her and his breath trembled on her lips, giving away his sudden nervous anticipation.

His eyes focused on her mouth, and with the utmost care he pulled her face to his, his brow knitting painfully with desire as her lips were pressed against his own. Her hands fell from his face to his shoulders, her arms slowly wrapping around him to pull him closer, her mouth moving against his tenderly but hungrily. His ears burned with the sound of her voice letting forth the softest of sighs, and his fingertips stung with each gentle graze across her bare skin. It was mind numbingly beautiful, and he wanted more of it. With quiet curiosity he slipped his hands under the material of her dressing gown, almost drawing back instinctively as if he'd done something wrong as she pulled away from him, only to watch as she reached up to push her braid back over her shoulder, her eyes soon finding his, silently encouraging him, permitting him to do what they both knew he wanted to do.

Slowly, he pushed the material off her shoulders, his eyes taking in every single detail as each newly uncovered inch of skin was displayed for him until the thin robe fell completely from her frame and crumpled on the floor lifelessly. Her hands slowly moved to unbutton his shirt, untucking it upon reaching the bottom and placing her hands on his bare chest, relishing the feel of his skin against her hands and eager for how it would feel against the rest of her burning flesh. She felt an aggressive rush of heat surge through her abdomen at the thought, compelling her to take his face in her hands and press her lips to his once more.

He worked carefully and steadily at the laces of her corset until it violently snapped open, pulling it off of her with frustration, tossing it aside with disgust, having always hated such brutal contraptions. He pulled away from her, his eyes slowly traveling from her face down to the freshly exposed portion of her body, his mouth falling open as a choked breath escaped, nearly strangled away inside his throat. She carefully slid off of him and stood before him as she pulled the last remnants of her clothing from her form and onto the floor, looking back up at him afterwards as if awaiting his approval. Foolish girl, she always sought his approval when she should have known there was absolutely nothing that would keep him from beseeching it upon her. For God's sake, she had to be able to see what she was doing to him if she hadn't been able to feel it between her legs moments before.

His eyes wandered over her form slowly, memorizing each fine detail and struggling with the desire that it spawned within him. The few curls at the top of her forehead and on the sides of her face that had fallen out of her braid, the way her neck sloped downwards into her collarbone, and from there down her chest into the elegant, supple curve of the underside of each perfect breast, the two small freckles just above her left hipbone… And all of this set on fire by the light of the sunset streaming through the windows, painting her silky skin shades of red and orange. He had never seen anything so magnificent, so stunningly divine… Each and every distinct feature was tucked away into his memory, the sheer perfection of her form, of her being, of her existence.

He suddenly felt incredibly small and stiflingly inferior.

He couldn't do this. What had made him think that he could do this? What kind of idiot was he to think that he could actually go through with this? What had made him think that he would even be able to do it to begin with? Now, having been confronted with what complete and utter perfection looked like he couldn't bring himself to have a coherent thought that didn't include harshly insulting himself.

He closed his eyes tightly, willing the rampant thoughts in his head to quiet themselves and let him focus. She deserved his full attention. Every inch of her glorious form deserved to be noticed, and he wouldn't let himself be distracted. He couldn't let that happen, he couldn't let this be ruined, not when he'd wanted it for so long.

His eyes opened and he reached out for her, watching as she willingly stepped into his arms, placing herself atop him once more. Upon feeling her bare hips against his own he realized the reality of just how desperately he wanted her, and he felt awkwardly ashamed by this, knowing that she could feel his apparent arousal against her. His hands trembled against her waist, giving away his now obvious insecurity. She placed her hands on either side of his face, lifting it to hers to look him in the eyes.

"Erik…"

Her voice pulled him from the foggy haze of thoughts that had consumed him, and he shook his head slightly, wrapping his arms about her tighter and pulling her to him, relishing in the soft groan that escaped from between her lips as her hips were pulled into his, the contact almost too much to bear. His face rested against her chest, his ears picking up the gentle thumping of her heart within her ribcage.

"No," he murmured, "no words… Words only get in the way."

With trembling hands and her own compliance he carefully shifted her around to lie on her back upon the blankets with her arms stretched out above her head, glowing with the light of the sunset that colored her in its golden and red shades – the perfect picture of a radiant, glimmering angel. His angel. He understood now that he had never truly been her angel - she had always been his. She had been the one to save them all, she had been the one to rescue him both then and now from the looming, despondent despair that he had been drowning in. Her boy had been wrong when he'd thought she needed saving. No one needed to save her, for she had fought the battle with unmatchable bravery and had conquered it. She had been the hero. She was still the hero.

"Words can come later."

His lips found her own once more, one hand trailing down her side, sending a rippling shiver through her spine. She moved her hands to place them on his arms, looking up at him with pleading eyes when he pulled away, begging him for what she knew they both so desperately desired. He could feel his heart begin to race upon realizing what they were about to do – what she was allowing him to do, _wanting _him to do.

This was a moment that he never saw happening. He never saw them being together willingly let alone doing what they were about to do. He sat back on his legs and pulled his shirt off the rest of the way, tossing it off to the side onto the floor. He leaned over her once more, feeling his pulse begin to race as she parted her lovely, lean legs for him, her chest rising and falling a bit faster than usual with anticipation as she saw his hand reach slowly to unbutton his trousers.

So close, so warm, so delicate, so _new_… Besides the new, previously undiscovered physical contact, the emotional intimacy of the moment was arguably more appealing than the physical. Every emotion that had attempted to remain contained until now was gone. Two lives, two separate souls that had been pulled apart and kept apart… Two souls that had caused each other immense grief whether intended or not. Two souls that lived completely separate lives, each with a different past and potentially a different ending to their story that didn't place them together.

But then there was only one, and nothing else mattered.

One body, one mind, one soul – connected both physically and emotionally, drifting amongst the waves of mutual euphoric bliss.

It was overwhelming at first, but slowly the soft whimpers and cries that escaped her lips became gentle encouragement that prodded him to do more – kiss her here, touch here there… It didn't take him long to pick up on what she liked – he always had been a quick learner, and he was eager to please her, and only her. There was nothing else, the rest of the world had melted away into the pink and orange hues of the sunset, leaving only the two of them, each consumed with the presence of the other and their warm, blushing bodies.

Thought was lost to her, her mind had become a hazy blur and the only thing that she could accurately register was the sensation that rippled through her body with each rendezvous of their hips. Each trace of his fingers over her skin drove her absolutely mad with ecstasy, her senses blurred by the mild trace of his cologne and the unique scent that only belonged to him.

Never had she felt anything like this – never had she felt such a complete, secure connection to another human being. Making love with Raoul was different – it was more physical than emotional, and if anything she had always felt safe with Raoul, and rarely so alive with such burning desire. It was more naïve. Raoul had always made her feel safe, but Erik… She should have expected such a connection to him. Somewhere deep down she should have known that the two of the coming together would be so hauntingly beautiful and serene, yet still filled with the most ardent and fierce fervency in every slight movement, or every moment that their eyes met. In those moments it was understood – words were never enough, but this… This would be enough for eternity.

So long she had waited, always wondering - so long he had ached for her, always silently wishing that she was with him... And now, here they were, clinging to each other desperately with need as their bodies responded to one another, their cries ringing in the corners of the room like the left over echoes of the harsh, burning chords of his _Don Juan_, always lingering and never fully disappearing.

And then, without any warning, it was over; her back arched with a violent snap, her nails digging into his back as her legs wrapped around his hips while a long, deep wail poured out of her throat. He followed her down immediately after, a low, almost pained groan escaping his throat as he buried his face into the crooked of her neck, his hips bucking into hers with the exhilaration of release.

For a small span of time there was only the sound of their breathing, her arms still clasped around him as he was gently placed atop her, his entire body trembling with the aftermath of their endeavor. Carefully he moved to lie beside her, welcoming her into his arms and holding her closely to him. He closed his eyes and buried his face in her curls, knowing that if he died at any given moment he would be content, for he had tasted heaven and needed nothing else. He allowed himself to be hypnotized by the feeling of her fingers tracing small patterns on his arm, her other hand placed against his chest, the two of them wrapped in a comfortable blanket of silence. Suddenly he was very glad he hadn't given her turn, as she had put it, to speak her mind until now.

Her hand moved to his throat, her fingers gently stroking it like feathers against his skin before pressing her lips there, feeling a soft shudder run up his spine.

"Oh, it is my beloved's voice," she murmured against his throat. "At his call my heart revives." She closed her eyes tightly, one hand moving to his face to touch his jaw. "Amid your roars of laughter, you devils that surround me, I recognized his voice!"

A shuddering breath escaped his lips and his hand moved to rest upon her curls. He recognized those words, he knew them by heart – nothing could make him forget those words.

Faust.

They were the lines she had sung to him as he had sat in Box Five during her performance. He pulled her closer yet if it was possible, and held her there tightly. His Marguerite, his Angel, his everything.

"His hand, his gentle hand draws me. I am free, he is there," she leaned back to look into his face, placing both her hands on his cheeks. "I hear him, I can see him!" Her voice was still soft, her eyes focused on his face as his wandered over hers. "Yes, it is you! I love you," she murmured, running a hand over the marred portion of his face. "My chains, death itself, frighten me no more. You have found me again, here I am saved." She traced his lips with her finger. "It is you," she leaned in to brush over his mouth with her own, "I am clasped to your heart."

His hand moved to gently stroke her cheek, unable to bring his voice to utter anything. This time his silence did not infuriate her.

"It is you, I am saved," her voice came once more, "you have found me again! I am clasped to your heart." She remained silent for several seconds before continuing. "Where now are the tortures, the tears, the abuse, the shame, the fright?" She pulled her face up to his once more and placed her lips upon his. His eyes fell closed and his brow knit with the strength of emotion coursing through him.

"All have gone," she whispered against his lips, opening her eyes to look up to his before finishing the line in a gentle whisper.

"Here you are… it is _you_."


	24. Chapter 24

He awoke to the sound of church bells ringing in the distance and rolled over with a groan. Those damned bells. He knew he had no choice but to rise and continue on his way. He'd managed to find a small inn with a decent room for a decent price and had shacked up there for several nights while trying to formulate a plan of action. In truth, the future looked dismal at best. But he had proven victorious, if not simply lucky, in intercepting the letter from Monsieur Khan. Had this letter not come to him, he doubted he would still be alive to hear the church bells he disliked so greatly.

With another heavy sigh, he pushed himself up from the mattress to sit up, running his hands through his hair and peering about the small room. Nothing special, but it was quiet and inconspicuous, the perfect kind of inn for someone more or less in hiding.

He rose and began to dress, deciding that this day must be devoted to attempting to find work in another household where he would then be out of the city and secluded from the searching eyes of his previous employer. He knew he needed to find something fast. He didn't know how long the interception of the letter would hold off his fate, whatever it may be. Damien didn't particularly enjoy pondering that particular detail. It was best to attempt to do all in his power to dodge it once more and flee the reaching, grasping hands of revenge as they crept in like an ominous fog from the Parisian countryside where he'd dwelled last.

The bells slowly came to a stop, much to Damien's pleasure. He grabbed the few belongings he'd brought into the city with him and left the room, not intending to return unless he was unable to find another affordable inn or, most preferably, work.

He started out into the streets with watchful eyes, quickly analyzing every face he passed to make sure it was not one that threatened his safety and secrecy. He immediately headed in the direction of the market to either buy – or steal – his breakfast. He had money, but the less he could spend the better while he was potentially still paying for lodging. It wasn't a matter of morality, it was a matter of convenience. He wandered past the fruit merchants, his eyes ravishing the bright apples and oranges. Other customers bustled about demanding the attention of many of the vendors and haggling about the prices. It was crowded as usual, a benefit he made a point to acknowledge and appreciate. A distracted vendor turned his back, and with a swift grab he had snagged two apples and hid them within the pocket of his jacket until he was out of sight of the market.

Once around the corner, he pulled the first apple out and took a bite, then stopped to buy a paper from a boy at the other end of the block. He'd need it for the ads if he were to hopefully find employment within the next day or so.

Moving with swift and purposeful stride, he continued down the sidewalks, always glancing at every passerby only to conclude he'd never seen them before and probably had nothing to worry about. Paris was a city of innumerable inhabitants, what were the odds that any of these people were acquaintances of Monsieur Durant, besides Monsieur Khan, that would betray the information of his whereabouts to the man?

He glanced up as he moved to cross a street, his eyes stopping on the large building before him – the Opera Garnier. He crossed the street and stood at the edge of the square, staring into the entrance, his mind returning to the information that he'd learned surrounding Christine and Monsieur Durant and this place. He took another bite of the apple, gazing over the grand but now quite dilapidated looking building.

"It's sad, isn't it?"

He whirled to his right, locking eyes with an old gentleman who had apparently noticed his intriguing stare locked on the building for so long. Damien's eyes scanned him momentarily to try and gather a sense of whether or not they had previously met and if he should be worried, but ultimately came to the conclusion that he had never seen him before in his life. His suit was not of the finest tailoring, and he walked with a cane. His hat was older, probably due for replacement, and a button was loose on his suit jacket – likely on the verge of falling off and leaving him to wonder where it went, though he didn't seem too concerned.

"You mean the Opera? Yes, I suppose it is." The man took a step closer to stand beside him and stare at the grand entrance once again, as if standing side by side with him he might see what the young man was seeing.

"There used to be such beautiful music created in that hall… Did you ever hear her sing?" Damien's brow arched.

"Who?"

"Why, Miss Daaé of course," the man began. "She was the last soprano to sing before the fire obliterated the Garnier." Damien still lacked understanding, unsure of where this man was going. Why did he care about a Miss Daaé and her last performance on the Garnier's stage?

"It was a horrible tragedy, y'know," the man went on. "They always used to tell stories of the place being haunted by the Opera Ghost – they used to blame any of the accidents on him, even blamed a death or two on him once." Damien almost snorted in amusement at the comment – it was utterly ridiculous the kind of made-up jargon people would believe. "Miss Daaé was his protégé, so they said, he taught her to sing like such an angel. Those who were there said it was the most moving performance they'd seen…"

"What happened that was so tragic?"

"He kidnapped her, right from the stage! And in all of the hysteria the fire that destroyed the whole building began. That's what the rumors were at least. Took her down to the cellars, they say. You ever heard any stories of the old O.G.?" Damien shook his head, still a bit confused. "Terrifying thing, apparently. They said he had a death's head, covered it up with a mask." His ears immediately snagged the last words – The Ghost wore a mask? He instinctively clutched the apple in his hand a bit tighter. "Always sending notes to the managers about the operas they should put on, who to cast. He always insisted that Miss Daaé sing principal."

"What happened to Miss Daaé? You said he kidnapped her?"

"Now no one really knows whether that's true or not, that's just what they say. But after it happened the Vicomte de Chagny – God rest his soul – was in a fit. There were rumors about him, too, flying about as it all went on. They'd apparently known each other in the past, everyone said he was stuck on her." The man shook his head. "He went after her. No one knows what happened from there, just that she turned up somehow. They were married shortly after that."

Damien's face lost its color. The Vicomte.

Miss Daaé – or, as he knew her, Christine de Chagny.

_The Opera Ghost._

Monsieur Durant.

Suddenly it all made sense. Monsieur Durant had been the infamous Opera Ghost this man was describing, and Christine his student… But somewhere along the lines something had gone awry – possibly when the Vicomte had returned? They had both been in love with her… He'd kidnapped her to keep her from the Vicomte, that had to be it! And if she'd left with the Vicomte any way – marrying him shortly after escaping – then she'd obviously not chosen Monsieur Durant. It certainly explained the tense reunion they'd had when she first arrived on the doorstep with the garments from that shop. The realities of the situation were glaring him in the face, too plain to remain unseen.

"They couldn't have been married more than a few years, such a sad thing… She was such a beautiful lady, inside and out, and he was a fine young man. Such a shame they had to meet such a nasty end with so much life left to live."

Damien was barely listening to him, for now his mind was reeling with these new discoveries and theories he was conjuring up in his mind. The man was silent for a minute or two, before turning feebly once again to peer at Damien.

"Did you ever know her?"

"Hm? Oh, Madame de Chagny?" He had been caught off guard after the silence they'd found themselves in. "No," he lied, "I didn't."

"Pity. If only you coulda heard her sing, boy… Like an angel, she was. Ain't no one else like Miss Daaé."

"I'll take your word for it, m'sieur." With that, he clapped the man gently on the shoulder. There was a plan beginning to take root in the back of his mind. "I must be going, but thank you for the story…" He flashed a charming, truly devious smile. "I'll be thinking of Miss Daaé for the rest of the day."

* * *

><p>She awoke the next morning to the sound of a bird singing sweetly on a branch outside the window where the sunlight eagerly streamed in. Christine groaned lightly and twisted about under the sheets, stretching and heaving a long, low sigh as she then buried her face in the dark crook of his neck. Five more minutes, then she would be ready to wake up. Until then, she would seek refuge in the sanctuary of his embrace where she could hide her face from the prying light.<p>

What she couldn't see was the faint smile on Erik's lips as all of this occurred. Her little ritual had stirred him gently from his dreaming – arguably the first legitimately pleasant and peaceful dreaming he'd done in years of living – and he took care to memorize each detail as it occurred. The way she stretched with that delicate little groan and how her bare body simultaneously pressed against him, how the sheets then tangled themselves about the two of them after she'd done so. The warmth of her breath now falling lightly against the skin of his neck as he held her in his arms…

At one point in his life he had tried to convince himself that he would never want anything more than to simply hold her in his embrace just one time. Unfortunately, the reality's awakening to this notion was all too clear and efficient in disproving the sentiment. He knew that somewhere, deep in the core of his being, he had always wanted all of her; her physical beauty, her voice, the light in her eyes and her unshakeable, resolute approach to all that she did.

It seemed that only now, basking in the warmth of the morning light as it licked the two of them and caressed the few exposed inches of skin that peeked out from beneath the blankets, after he'd had her, that he understood. Had he kept her with him before they would have lived in misery. They would have each been more lonely than if they'd gone their separate ways and had never crossed paths at all. Before, he'd wanted nothing more than to possess her – he had confused his obsessive desire to claim every aspect of her as his own with love, and it had nearly driven the two of them to madness. Certainly there had been love somewhere in the midst of all of that, he never doubted that, but it had been infected with jealous hate. It had been toxic and destructive and resentful. It had consumed him, and because of it he'd lost sight of what it would be to try to truly love her, even if she'd never been meant to return that love.

Their last night together below the Opera had changed everything, it had awoken him to the harsh reality of the havoc he had wreaked upon her and the repercussions he would face, and the trauma that marked her by his hands. Now, he often recalled how it was in the years after he'd let her go that he'd learned to truly love her and treasure her for what she really was. Even as it mingled with the bitter regret and confused hatred he felt, there was the undeniable truth that he still loved her. Still, even in the hysterical, vengeful mania that he'd lived in during those last days in the Garnier, it could not be denied that somewhere within him he loved her. But it was in her absence – the time when she was not his and there would never be another chance that she could be – that he came to love her genuinely. It only could have happened this way, he now realized. Only with a second chance, only after she had taught him what it was to feel real love without the selfish need to possess her.

In their time at the Opera he had called himself her teacher, but more and more he realized that all along she had been the one who had always done the teaching.

A soft sigh near his ear pulled him from his thoughts, and he pulled away slightly to look down at her little face resting on the pillow. He moved to brush one unruly curl from her forehead, tucking it back behind her ear where it belonged. Somewhere in the middle of the night she'd pulled the ribbon from her hair and had let it unravel from the braid into the magnificent crown of curls that he always admired. The sunlight only enhanced the radiance of that wild crown – and he found it quite fitting for a queen like her.

She cracked one eye open, peeking over at him as he stared back at her, now chuckling as he caught her playful gaze. The corners of her mouth pulled up into an impish grin and she closed her eyes and stretched once more, her hands reaching above her head and her toes towards the end of the bed as she rolled onto her back. She ended it with a sigh and relaxed, turning her face to him.

"Good morning," she said softly. He grinned and chuckled lightly at the sight of her still drowsy appearance.

"It is, isn't it?" He murmured as he reached over to cup her cheek with his hand. He leaned forward and pressed a brief kiss to her forehead. She sighed contentedly, pulling back just enough to look him in the face.

It was strange, after so much time, she realized, to see him without the mask. Not that she would ever forget the sight of his face – it was not particularly forgettable – but to actually see it as something more than a memory… To see it as something tangible. She reached forward and lightly trailed a finger from his temple down his cheek, then traced his jaw. With small, almost stifled yawn, she closed her eyes and attempted to wriggle back into his embrace.

It was seemingly during this gesture that the realization dawned on him that he was not wearing his mask. The events of the previous night had left him understandably distracted, but now in the daylight he felt alarmingly unsettled without it. What was to say she wouldn't look upon his face in the light and remember how greatly it had horrified her before? There was the briefest flicker of harsh, unrelenting insecurity in his eyes, and he propped himself up on his elbow, beginning to scour the rest of the bed for the object.

She felt him shift and opened her eyes once more, following his form as he leaned over her slightly and groped about the blankets with one hand.

"What are you doing, Erik?"

He was silent for a brief moment. "Nothing, nothing…"

"…I don't believe you – did you lose something? What are you looking for?"

He gave a little huff. "I seem to have misplaced my mask…"

She pursed her lips slightly, perhaps thinking that with all that had occurred the night before she might have made one grandiose, all-encompassing victory with him. She should have known it would be much more difficult than that.

"You don't need to wear it around me."

"Old habits die hard, Christine."

For a short time she was quiet. Something about that statement made her feel a little wretched and left her wondering. To some degree, she decided that wearing the mask really had nothing to do with her comfort at all. Perhaps he might justify it with that, but she knew better… Christine was not blind to the anxiety behind his sudden change of demeanor, and she quickly sat up as well, thinking that she perhaps remembered where she'd discarded the mask the evening before. If she could just find it before him…

Her hand bumped something tangled between the sheets. She pulled it up before he could get his hands on it, scooting back enough that he might not pry it from her hands as she seemingly unearthed it from the depths of the bed.

"Ah, you've found it! Here, I'll just – "

She pulled her arm away, holding it behind her so that he might not take it.

"No, Erik, I told you that you don't need to wear it – "

"I know, Christine, but I – "

" – around me, you know that, I know you do. So – "

"Yes, Christine, but please – "

" – I would much prefer – "

"Why are you doing this, Christine? Just give me back – "

" – if you not – "

"Christine!"

It had come out as a rather harsh bark of a command whether he'd intended it to be that way or not. He'd acquired a knack for commanding her without any real commands and by simply saying her name – she'd always know what he was requesting of her.

She still held onto the mask for a moment, refusing to place it in his outstretched hand. Her voice was quiet when she spoke again.

"Erik… Why are you so insistent on wearing the mask?"

His eyes never left the object in her hand, and his hand still remained open, waiting for her to return it to him.

"…Erik?"

He was silent for a moment longer, but when he finally spoke there was something melancholic about his tone, and yet oddly nostalgic…

"Sometimes it is hard to be without the company of a lifelong friend for too long."

In that moment she understood, if she hadn't before, and realized that harsh force wouldn't win this battle for her. Tenderly, she placed the mask in his hand and then leaned forward to press her lips to his forehead in silent affirmation of her comprehension. He nearly winced at the contact.

He placed the mask back on his face, tying it carefully. They lingered in silence, each too afraid to break the bizarrely calm, but undoubtedly now glum atmosphere that his words had created. Her eyes remained intently focused on the mask.

"…When did you first begin wearing it?" She asked quietly after a time, her eyes roaming over the mask where she would have seen his face moments before.

Once again he was silent, perhaps a bit unwilling to reply. She wouldn't prod him incessantly to answer, but now she was curious and it wasn't a curiosity that stemmed from innocent lack of knowledge – this curiosity came from the burden of concern.

"I've had it for almost as long as I can remember… It was my fifth birthday, however, that I remember vividly vowing to never take it off again…" Christine's face fell. He seemed content to end the explanation there.

"What happened?" Her question was harmless enough to anyone who might stupidly underestimate the hardship he'd endured because of his face, but she knew that it was a question that needed to be asked, and in turn needed to be answered.

He shook his head at first. "I don't think that's a good idea, Christine, really – "

He was silenced by a small hand on his own. Suddenly comforting, encouraging, willing him to tell her. If he would not tell her, who would he ever tell? There was no one else in the world he would even dream of telling…

"… I asked her for a present, and she wouldn't give it to me."

For a moment she thought he was simply going to stop there, and she almost asked again, but just as she thought to do it he went on.

"We had a guest at dinner that night, and feeling rather defiant after she'd refused me earlier I came to the table without my mask." He was nearly boring holes into the blanket with his gaze – those golden eyes burning mercilessly as he recalled the memories. It was certainly unpleasant if not worse, she gathered this was an event he'd nearly shut entirely out of his memory for the sake of keeping what emotional well-being he still had in tact. "She scolded me horribly. I asked her why I had to wear it and we argued until she dragged me upstairs to a mirror, throwing me in front of it so that I might see my reflection for the first time and understand the mask was such a necessity." He shifted slightly, leaning back against the headboard of the bed. "She told me later that night when I kept waking from nightmares that if I wore the mask, the face would never find me again." He paused for a long moment, as if deliberating his next words. "It's funny, isn't it? To have nightmares of my own face…"

Christine merely sat and dwelled on what she'd been told, knowing that he'd generously spared her what she assumed were inevitably gruesome details. For that she was thankful, though it was perhaps a bit selfish. She didn't feel that her heart could take anything more than the rather plain description of the event he'd given her. Still, however, one question remained itching in the back of her mind, begging to be asked. Surely he would answer her just one more time, he'd already told her the worst of it, she was certain…

"Erik?"

He looked up at her, his eyes staring intently into her face from behind the mask.

"What did you ask for?"

There was a sharp intake of breath, rather like he'd burned himself playing with fire for the first time. He looked away from her, staring past her and out the window on the other side of the room, his eyes captivated by the small branch that danced in the morning breeze. She knew the answer sat right behind his lips. It was just a matter of whether or not he was willing to divulge it to her.

"…Two kisses." His voice was soft, reciting the words as if he was undoubtedly reliving the scene in his head just by doing so, but there was an underlying bitterness tainting the innocence of his five year old self's request. "One for now and one to save."

For a long time she was quiet but when the need to reply came, she didn't speak, but instead merely held her arms open to him so that he might come into them if he so desired. He did so slowly but willingly. For the rest of the morning they remained in bed, her propped up on the fluffy pillows and his head resting on her chest as he lay silently in her embrace, memorizing the drumming of her heartbeat in his ear. It was strange, she thought, how recalling that memory had reduced him to such a gentle, quiet state in her arms. Even in his calmer moments she didn't remember ever knowing him to be this subdued, or this willing to seek affection and intimacy without copious amounts of prior encouragement… Even the events of the previous night – which she recalled with a certain blissfulness now – had taken immeasurable determination to see through to fruition.

She pressed her lips to the top of his head, smiling almost sadly into his hair as she ran a hand lightly over it.

After years of enduring the lion, she'd finally met the lamb.


End file.
